


Doe a Deer a Female Deer

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [3]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Hunter!Stiles, M/M, Spark!Stiles, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three weeks and John still isn't keen on keeping Stiles around. They're in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Самка оленя. Олениха](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736701) by [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here is part three! I'm breaking my rule because it's not completely finished but it's pretty much done and I'm almost done with school for the year so there may be a tiny bit longer waits between chapters.  
> I maybe also have been dabbling around with some other AU and fic ideas. Those may be up later too.
> 
> At any rate, enjoy the first chapter!

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

This was the third hunt in two weeks. They were in Oklahoma, and John, it seemed, still hadn’t warmed to the idea of Stiles sticking around. Despite Stiles’ efforts to be as essential as possible John’s end plan was still to dump him off with Bobby. Stiles had been on his best behavior, monitoring what he said and what he did with more attention than he’d ever given to it before, with absolutely _nothing_ to show for it. And it hadn’t been easy. In fact it was exhausting, and Stiles felt like he was at a breaking point. Like ants were crawling beneath his skin and his brain was being slowly devoured. It was draining to monitor his every move, and Stiles actually found himself wishing for sleep.

Dean though, despite his initial hostility, had warmed considerably seeming to treat Stiles as a sort of younger brother. Probably as a weird replacement for Sam, wherever the hell that kid was. Stiles both welcomed and hated Dean’s companionship as he tried to win John over. He hoped having Dean on his side would help during the inevitable argument when they arrived at Sioux Falls, but having the other boy constantly around and taking an interest, no matter how passing, in his wellbeing was irritating. Especially when Dean brought up Stiles’ odd sleeping habits.

Stiles leaned his forehead against the cool glass, staring sightlessly out at the endless plains of grass rolling by. Oklahoma was really a boring state. No mountains. No trees. Not even a lake. Just grass. That was probably an unfair judgment but Stiles didn’t care. He couldn’t even find the energy to care about not caring.

“Stiles, you listening?” John asked, voice as terse and just this side of angry as ever.

“Yes, sir,” Stiles replied automatically having no idea what John was even talking about. It didn’t seem to matter. Once they hit South Dakota John and Dean would be gone and Stiles would be back at square one when it came to learning about hunting. Okay, more like square two or three because he _had_ learned a lot, but most of what he’d learned was lore and tactics. What he wanted, needed, to learn was weapons and defense. Lore and tactics? He could learn that himself. Actual, hands on, with knives and guns and fists defense? He needed some help with that one.

And John had taught him nothing. Dean hadn’t either.

And it wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t asked. He had. Repeatedly. But neither hunter seemed to think it was all that necessary since he was being left at Bobby’s and all.

“Stiles.” Sharp. Damn, he’d drifted again.

“What?”

“You aren’t listening,” John stated gruffly. “Dean, go over it again with him.”

Dean sighed, a heavy put upon sigh, but obligingly twisted around to face Stiles. For his part Stiles picked his head up, doing his best to focus in on Dean’s face—which was just as attractive as ever even if he was sort of less of a douche than Jackson now—even though it made his brain physically hurt.

“Six young men in Sperry died from mysterious causes. Autopsy says they were trampled to death but no idea by what. First victim went to a party, was missing for three days, then the body was discovered in the forest. Second victim also went to a party, was missing, then found trampled. Third vic went to a bar and was found trampled the next morning. Fourth went to a party, was missing for five days, also found in the woods. Fifth went to a bar, went missing, was found trampled. Sixth went to a party, was missing for two days, then found, also trampled,” Dean recited sounding almost bored.

Stiles got the gist of the monologue. At least he figured he did. Dead men. Trampled. The forest. Oh my. He couldn’t really tell what he missed, if he had missed anything, so he just went with the conclusion he had, in fact, heard everything. He nodded and took comfort in the fact that John and Dean weren’t yelling at him. “So, spirit?” he asked just for the sake of saying something.

Dean glanced at his father, a sidelong glace that communicated…something. He and John did that a lot actually, and it annoyed the ever-living hell out of Stiles. And, oh look, they’d just crossed over a river. He could add river to the list of stuff that was actually in Oklahoma.

“Probably a spirit,” Dean agreed and Stiles stifled a groan. It wasn’t that ghosts weren’t cool and fun, if he could call fighting for his life against an intangible entity of anger fun, but two out of the three hunts he’d been on had been vengeful spirits. And the third had been a nearly harmless water sprite. Nearly harmless because the thing _had_ only been trying to play. It just hadn’t understood that humans kind of required air to live. Not that Stiles was complaining exactly, as long as they weren’t hunting werewolves he was golden, it was just that spirits didn’t require any actual fighting. Thus reinforcing John’s idea that Stiles didn’t need to learn how to fight.

“Great. Love spirits,” Stiles muttered letting his head thud back to the window and wincing a little. “Friggin’ awesome.” And if he sounded like a sulky five year old it was probably because, at the moment, he actually was a sulky five year old.

* * *

Sperry was a small town. Full of dust and suspicious people. Well, the people weren’t suspicious looking, the people just stared at John, Dean, and Stiles like _they_ were suspicious. It was kind of unnerving. John and Dean gave no sign of noticing or caring though, making their way around this town like they had all the others. That was confidently, quickly, and most importantly, without Stiles. He, once again, had been left at the motel to do research.

Not that he was finding anything worthwhile. Aside from a history of many, many more deaths involving trampled people. As far back as the town’s history went there were clusters of deaths, anywhere from three to twenty four men being trampled. Well, mostly men with a smattering of women. More women entered the death toll in the later years, a sharp increase in the 1980s and steadily rising until the current year where there had been no women as of yet.

But there was no origin death, no outlier to indicate the vengeful spirit.

Absolutely nothing.

Stiles snarled and shut his laptop with more force than he would generally permit being used against his precious MacBook and just barely refrained from throwing it on the bed. He paced the length of the open space, which wasn’t much at all, counting slowly to try and push his restlessness back down to a manageable amount.

After reaching one hundred and actually feeling like the room was getting smaller, Stiles abandoned his attempt to simply wear through the carpet and snatched his coat from the chair before storming outside.

He pulled the coat on, flipping the hood up to help ward off the chill and burying his hands in the pockets. Setting a brisk speed he picked a direction and just went with it. In Boston he’d developed the habit of walking off excess energy, of picking a direction and just letting his feet carry him where they may. It wasn’t a particularly efficient habit, ending with him lost more often than not, but it served to settle the sometimes soul deep agitation that cropped up. And one time he’d stumbled across an awesome taco place so it wasn’t always a loss.

It was several minutes into his impromptu adventure around Sperry that his phone rang. Cursing, Stiles spent a moment wishing he’d thought to leave the thing at the motel before fishing it out and warring between relief and apprehension that the caller was Deaton.

Stiles sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and answering the call. “Hey.”

_“Stiles. I’m glad you answered. Been a while since we spoke last.”_

“Yeah,” Stiles said settling back into a slightly shadowed alcove to talk. “Because I haven’t called you.”

 _“No, you have not,”_ Deaton replied easily and also managing to sound like a disappointed parent.

“I don’t need to check in with you. And I’ve gone longer than three weeks without calling you before,” Stiles said letting the anger filter into his tone.

_“True. But then you were with Sinéad in Boston. Not running around the country with a Winchester.”_

“Well, to be honest, Deaton, I don’t know where I felt safer,” Stiles remarked. “With a druid who somehow managed to be more cryptic than you half the time and surrounded by a bunch of werewolves almost disturbingly intent on recruiting me _or_ gallivanting across America with two leather-wearing sasquatches who have a trunk full of sharp objects and an unhealthy focus on digging up dead people and setting them on fire?” he asked rhetorically. He heard the other man sigh heavily.

 _“Hunters are dangerous people, Stiles, even ones who follow a code. You know that. You need to be careful,”_ Deaton said.

Stiles rolled his eyes, fidgeting against the wall. “I’m always careful.”

_“If they find out about you—”_

“They’re not going to find out,” Stiles said flatly, cutting the druid off and letting the silence envelope the conversation. It was an absolute. There were exactly two people in the world that knew about him and neither was ever going to be in contact with the Winchesters.

_“Stiles—”_

“I have to go, Deaton. Nature calls,” he said quickly hitting the end call button and then powering his phone off. He clenched his hands, knocking his head back into the wall and grimacing.

Screw Deaton for reminding him about something he already understood loud and clear. He wasn’t safe here; he wasn’t _safe_ anywhere. But he could handle that. He hadn’t been safe in Beacon Hills, he hadn’t been safe in Boston, and he certainly wasn’t safe now. He’d accepted that, it was his life.

He walked around aimlessly for several more minutes before finding a small coffee shop to stop at. Halfway through his large black coffee he figured he should probably turn his phone back on. Of course in the twenty minutes since he’d turned it off Dean had called three times and left a demanding text message that simply read _call me_. With a period even.

Stiles winced but obediently tapped the phone icon next to Dean’s name, raising the phone to his ear with a sigh. Dean didn’t even say hello.

 _“Where are you?”_ the hunter growled. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d say Dean sounded concerned under all that anger.

“I went for a walk,” Stiles said picking at the coffee cup lid.

_“In a town where men are getting trampled to death? Real smart there, Stiles.”_

Stiles glanced around the quaint shop, raising an eyebrow at the elderly barista and otherwise empty tables and booths. “Yeah, I’m sure the ninety-five year old barista is going to threaten my life,” he said. “Look, I just needed some fresh air, all right? And all of the deaths happened after a party or a bar so, since I’m at neither, I think I’m good.”

He heard Dean sigh over the sound of a door slamming and the Impala rumbling to life. _“Where are you?”_ he asked again.

“Uh, a coffee shop. Sal’s Cup. Just past Sixth on Center Street,” Stiles said.

 _“Don’t go anywhere,”_ Dean ordered. _“I’ll be there in ten.”_

“Sure,” Stiles said even as Dean was hanging up. “I’ll just wait right here. Like a good little soldier.” He maybe contemplated leaving just to spite Dean for three seconds before deciding it wouldn’t do well to purposefully antagonize the people he needed to teach him. But still, he thought about it.

Tossing the now empty cup in the trash he waved to the barista and stepped outside trying to get a good few more minutes of fresh air before being confined to the motel room again. Christ, he was starting to feel like Rapunzel.

* * *

 It was actually seventeen minutes before Dean pulled up leaning over to pop the passenger door open with a scowl and a curt, “Get in.” Stiles obeyed but was really disappointed Dean missed such a great reference opportunity. Get in, loser, we’re going hunting. Oh if only. More like: get in, loser, back to your room. Maybe he hadn’t seen that movie. Stiles glanced at the hunter who was glaring at the road like it had personally offended him and sporting his heavy leather coat. Yeah, he probably hadn’t.

“We told you to stay at the motel,” Dean said checking his mirrors before pulling back out onto the street. Stiles slouched in his seat resting one elbow on the door and propping his chin in his hand. “What were you thinking?”

“That the motel was small, that fresh air is healthy, and that I could really use some coffee?” Stiles said blandly. “That I’m adult, that my feet work for walking, and that I possess the strange ability to make my own decisions?”

Dean blew out a harsh breath, taking a turn too fast so Stiles had to grab onto the door handle to avoid falling over. Someone blared their horn loudly, echoed curses sounding from behind them. Dean ignored the yelling, switching lanes and braking hard at a red light. “What was the first rule? Oh yeah, you do what we tell you to do!”

“Well maybe try not confining me to a motel room to research all the time, and I’ll try listening better,” Stiles reasoned.

“We told you it was going to be your job to do the research,” Dean said hitting the gas as soon as the light turned green and cutting off the blue sedan behind them to get into the next turning lane. Stiles flicked his gaze to the mirror, watching as the woman in the sedan made several rude hand gestures; Dean didn’t seem to notice.

“I know,” Stiles replied, working to keep his tone even. “And I’m cool with research. But I’m not cool with being left in a tiny motel room for hours on end, and neither you nor John _told_ me I couldn’t leave this time.”

“It was _implied_!” Dean said exasperatedly.

“Implied?” Stiles said with a short laugh. “Why? Because every other time you guys dumped me at a motel I wasn’t allowed to leave? Was I just supposed to assume this time too?”

“Yes!” Dean yelled all but slamming on the brakes for the next light. Stiles felt the seatbelt dig in a bit as he jerked forward at the sudden stop.

“Why are you so angry?” Stiles asked feeling pretty irritated himself now. All the peace he’d managed to cultivate from his walk was gone, replaced with a dark and prickly sensation clawing at his chest.

“You came to us,” Dean said. “You’re our responsibility, we’re just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

Stiles swallowed sitting back in the seat. “You’re protecting me,” he said.

“No. Yeah,” Dean said with a sigh. The light turned green and Dean accelerated at a more acceptable speed now.

“It’s not your job to do that.”

“You came to us, Stiles,” Dean said. “Look, if you stay we’ll teach you more, I promise. But right now you’re not experienced and that makes you vulnerable so it’s safest for you if you just stay at the motel.”

Stiles shook his head slightly, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. “Yeah, okay, no. Stop the car,” he said.

“What?” Dean said sounding startled.

“Stop the car!” Stiles snapped glaring at Dean with a hand on the door handle. The hunter stared for a long moment, alternating his attention between Stiles and the road. He looked like he was going to ignore Stiles for a moment, but something showing on Stiles’ face must have convinced him Stiles was going out the door whether the car stopped or not. Dean slowed the car once again ignoring the blaring of horns behind them as he coasted to the edge of the road.

Stiles didn't wait for the car to come to a complete halt before shoving the door open and letting it slam shut behind him. He buried his hands in his pockets hunching his shoulders as he walked down the sidewalk, taking even and controlled breaths.

“Stiles!”

Dean had the window rolled down and was shouting over the car engine and the occasional horn and angry yelling of the cars swerving around him as he followed Stiles slowly. Stiles, for his part, ignored the hunter entirely.

“Stiles, what are you…get back in the car! Stiles!”

Stiles turned sharply. “I’m not your responsibility, Dean! It’s not your _job_ to protect me!” he yelled.

Dean dropped his jaw. “Are you serious right now? After everything you’ve—” he cut himself off glancing warily at the several people who’d slowed their walking and were occasionally staring at the two of them. “After everything you still think you don’t need to be protected?

“I didn’t say that,” Stiles retorted. “But it’s not your job. It’s _mine_. I look after myself. I take care of myself! I don’t need anyone else!”

“That’s just,” Dean shook his head angrily. “Look, would you just get in the car?” he snapped. “We can talk back at the motel.”

“No, Dean, I’m not getting in your damn car so you can take me back to my jail cell!” 

“For fucks sake, Stiles, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Stiles laughed bitterly uncaring of the onlookers who were openly staring now. “What’s _wrong_ with me? That's always the golden question isn’t it!”

“Son,” a man on the street said eyeing Dean suspiciously and wearing a look of concern for Stiles, “is this man bothering you?”

“No!” Stiles yelled throwing his hands up in frustration. The man looked stunned, glancing at Dean like he thought maybe Stiles was the one bothering _Dean_. Stiles rolled his eyes and stalked away.

“Shit. Stiles!” Dean shouted. “Look, if you get in the car…I’ll take you with me this afternoon.”

Stiles stopped turning to eye Dean doubtfully. “Where are you going?” he asked. Because it really wouldn’t be worth getting in the car if Dean was just going to sit at the motel with him or take him to a library again.

“To talk to some of the families.”

Stiles still hesitated a long moment, rocking back on his heels as he thought, but eventually he stepped down off the curb to reenter the car. Dean sighed, in relief probably or disgust maybe, rolling up the window and accelerating down the street to just above the speed limit. Stiles let the oppressive silence persist for a few minutes before speaking.

“Where’s John?”

“Consulting with a coroner in the next town over. He took a rental,” Dean said. 

Stiles nodded tapping his fingers on the door. “So why can you take me with you now?” he asked only letting a bit of bitterness filter into his tone. “It’s not like I spontaneously got older.”

Dean glanced at him, almost warily, like he was judging Stiles’ state of mind. “There are different methods to questioning the family. FBI or cops is easiest but reporters works too. That's the method my brother and I used most when Dad sent us in solo. He’s about your age so,” Dean shrugged. “You are eighteen at least, right?”

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, not that you or your dad ever bothered to ask, but I am actually an adult. I know, it’s shocking.”

Dean nodded, pursing his lips pensively. “So how old are you?”

“Twenty,” Stiles lied. He gave Dean an assessing once over. “And you? You’re what, twenty-three, twenty-four?”

Dean laughed and it only sounded slightly strained. “Twenty-two.”

“Ah, which makes your brother?”

Dean’s smile faded a bit into something wistfully morose. “Sam’s nineteen.”

Stiles cocked his head at the aura of grief radiating softly from the hunter. “Where is Sam? You and John don’t talk about him much.”

“No, we don’t,” Dean agreed. Stiles thought that was all he would say then, “Sammy’s at college. He got a free ride to Stanford.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and whistled lowly. Sam must possess Lydia levels of intelligence to have gotten that. “Free ride to Stanford? That’s impressive. You guys must be proud.”

Dean smiled genuinely at nothing in particular, probably a memory. “I am.”

“But not John?” Stiles asked sensing the unspoken part of the sentence.

Dean shifted in his seat tapping his fingers along the steering wheel in time with the beat of the song playing. “Not so much. I mean, I think he is, but mostly he’s, I dunno, scared of Sammy being alone.”

“I can understand that,” Stiles said running finger along the window. “I mean, knowing what we do about the world,” he shrugged, “it’s hard to let people go.”

“Yeah,” Dean said pulling into the motel lot and giving Stiles another deeply assessing look. “So can I. Problem was Sammy couldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	2. ChapterTwo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three weeks and John still isn't keen on keeping Stiles around. They're in Oklahoma, only two states away from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's the next part! Enjoy!  
> Also, I haven't read through this as much I usually like to. So I really hope there's no terrible typos, but if there is, please forgive me. Also, like, tell me. So I can fix them.

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

Stiles followed Dean up the manicured pathway, looking around the yard with interest. A blue Honda sat in front of a closed garage door, well tended to flowerbeds bordering the driveway, along the path, and wrapping around the porch adding just a splash of color. Dean and he climbed the steps in synch, Stiles hanging back as Dean raised a fist to rap on the door.

Stiles frowned waving his fingers vaguely at the small round button to the right of the spotless white door. “Dude, there’s a door bell.”

Dean rolled his eyes but pushed the doorbell, gesturing as if to ask Stiles if he was satisfied as they heard the generic charm sound inside.

“No need to be such a diva about it,” Stiles muttered listening to the sound of footfalls coming towards the door from inside. Dean flipped him off behind his back just as a man, late forties or early fifties with receding slightly gray hair and weary eyes, answered the door.

“Hello, Mr. Palmer?” Dean said warmly. “My name is John Bonham and this is…Gregory Heffley. We work for Tulsa Beacon and were hoping to talk to you about your son if that’s not too much of a bother?”

Mr. Palmer looked between them for a long moment before giving a short nod and stepping back to open the door wider. “Uh, sure, come on in.”

“Thank you,” Dean said as he stepped over the threshold.

“Seriously? That’s the name you went with?” Stiles hissed at the hunter as he followed on Dean’s heels.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Mr. Palmer said as Dean nudged Stiles inconspicuously with an elbow.

“No, thank you. We’re fine,” Dean said.

“All right,” Mr. Palmer said as he led them to the living room and gestured to the sofa before perching on the edge of a chair. Stiles lowered himself to the sofa beside Dean frowning a little as he sank a bit further into the cushions than he expected, listing uncomfortably close to Dean. “So, what, what exactly did you want to talk about?” Palmer said.

“Jeremy Palmer was your son, correct?” Dean said.

“Yes, Jeremy was my son.”

Dean nodded understandingly pulling out a small pad of paper and a pen. “Can you tell us what happened to him, sir? In your own words, of course.”

Mr. Palmer sighed lacing his fingers together and leaning his elbows on his knees. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you that the police haven’t already told the public. Jeremy went out to a party, you know, with a couple of friends. There’s always some party going on each weekend, kids these days, you know? Anyway, he left here about eight headed to the party down by the river. He didn’t come home that night which wasn’t unusual. I thought he was with a friend. My wife and I didn’t start worrying until we hadn’t heard from him by midday…he always texted, you know?”

Mr. Palmer stopped, collecting himself and wiping at his eyes. Dean made a sympathetic noise, leaning forward in his seat a bit. “When did you find out what happened, Mr. Palmer?”

“About dinner time,” Palmer said. “A police man came to our door and I just, I just knew, right then that Jeremy wouldn’t be coming home. The police say Jeremy was trampled to death, by some kind of animal. But what kind of animal could have done that?”

“A cow,” Stiles said frankly because, well, honestly. “Horse, buffalo, elk, moose, de—” Dean elbowed him again, roughly this time. Stiles cleared his throat as Mr. Palmer stared at him. “Sorry.”

“Do the police have any idea what animal it may have been?” Dean asked.

Mr. Palmer shook his head slowly. “If they do they’ve not told us. We haven’t heard anything else from them yet. We’re just stuck, waiting in limbo. My wife…she hasn’t been doing well.”

“That’s understandable,” Dean said. “Greg and I, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Palmer said quietly.

Dean nodded scribbling a few notes down. “Do you know what party he went to specifically? Perhaps who hosted it or where it was exactly?”

Mr. Palmer frowned shaking his head. “I’m not sure. There’s always someone throwing some party and they’re usually down by the river. A lot of parents…they get nervous, you know? A bunch of drunk teenagers and young adults around a river? That’s just asking for trouble. But Jeremy…he was a good kid. Never drank. Everyone liked him. He was smart, you know? Kept himself out of trouble. Kept his friends out of trouble too.”

“Did any of his friends go to that party with him?” Stiles asked. Dean nudged his foot lips pursed into a thin line, probably trying to subtly remind Stiles of their agreement that he’d be silent as a church mouse while they talked to the families. Well, screw that.

Palmer nodded. “A few.”

“Could you give us some contact information for them?” Stiles said. “Name, address, maybe a phone number?”

“I think so, sure,” Palmer said rising from his seat. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“No problem,” Stiles said giving the man a smile as he left the room. Stiles rolled his eyes practically feeling Dean’s glare before he even looked at the hunter. “What? Don’t be such a grouch.”

“I told you to be quiet while I talked to him,” Dean said pitching his voice low so Palmer wouldn’t overhear.

Stiles shrugged looking around the room with renewed interest now that he could do so without Palmer wondering. He peered closely at the row of family pictures above the fireplace showing a variety of school pictures, vacation pictures, and a graduation photograph. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d try this thing where I just didn’t listen to you.”

“Well, I’m thinking I’ll try this thing where I handcuff you to a pipe in the bathroom,” Dean retorted.

Stiles brought his focus back to Dean, and leaned away from the hunter to put more space between them. “Having been both the handcuffer _and_ the handcuffee in the past, I’m not overly fond of that idea.”

“And I’m not overly fond of you butting into a questioning,” Dean said craning his neck to try and see Palmer moving about in the other room.

“You weren’t asking the right questions,” Stiles stated bluntly.

Dean stared at him incredulous. “This is the first questioning you've been a part of, how would _you_ know?”

“You mean beside listening to your dad’s overly detailed reports on every witness questioning you’ve done that I haven’t been a part of?” Stiles asked rhetorically continuing on before Dean could answer, “You’re acting like this is still a spirit, which as I told you on the way here it’s _not_ , and attached to a person or a place. This isn’t really about _where_ the victims were, party or bar or somewhere else. They were chosen. They all have to have something in common so the questions we should be asking are all about who Jeremy was. And Palmer is not the person to ask those questions to.”

“Why not?” Dean asked. “He’s the dude’s _dad_.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said. “When you were a teenager would your dad have been the guy to question if I wanted to know exactly what you were getting up to?”

Dean furrowed his brows shaking his head a bit. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Who else?”

“Dude, that’s abnormal,” Stiles said. “A normal teenager does not tell his dad jackshit about what he’s up to. I would know. Palmer described Jeremy as a good kid who kept his friends out of trouble. The man has no _idea_ what his son was really up to. The people who do know...”

“Are his friends,” Dean finished and Stiles nodded. Dean sighed running a hand over his hair. “Fine. We’ll talk to them.”

* * *

“So,” Stiles said as they watched Colin Maynes bussing tables at the local twenty-four hour diner. “How do we talk to him? Reporters?”

Dean shook his head.

“Cop?” Another head shake. “Weird extended relatives?”

Dean snapped his fingers. “Yahtzee. Kids don’t respond well to authority figures usually, sometimes reporters depending on the case, but usually when dealing with grieving friends and kids they respond best to familial relations or the Hi I’m New In Town Shtick. So, today I am Jeremy’s cousin from out of town and you are my annoying younger brother.”

“Cool,” Stiles said with a slight sneer. “I’ve always wanted an overbearing older sibling.”

Dean sighed seeming to argue with himself then asked, “Do you have any siblings?”

Stiles considered him a moment before answering honestly. “No. I’m an only child.”

“That sucks,” the hunter said. “It’d be weird not to have a brother. Or a sister. Or anyone really.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed after a beat. “Sometimes.” It’d certainly be weird to _have_ a brother. Like an actual brother and not Scott, who was most definitely like Stiles’ brother but not by blood. Or a sister, a role maybe Allison would have filled eventually given enough time. Maybe it would have changed things or maybe it wouldn’t. What was that old saying? The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb? Regardless, he couldn’t imagine adding a sibling to all the situations he’d gone through with the pack and the amount of stress that would have brought with it whether the sibling was older or younger.

“All righty then. Let’s go see what Colin knows,” Dean said shoving his door open and squinting in the bright sun as he stepped out.

Stiles followed his lead, entering the diner just behind the hunter and immediately locating Colin who was bussing a booth in the back. Colin was a skinny kid. Pale and tall with shocking red hair on the top of his head as well as an extra helping of clumsy if the trouble he was having stacking the dishes was anything to go by. He reminded Stiles a bit of Isaac, if the scarf-wearing maniac had been a redhead and about as coordinated as a garden gnome.

Dean and Stiles grabbed a booth by the window, Dean taking the side that allowed him to keep an eye on the door and Stiles on the side where he could keep an eye on Colin. After a few minutes a bubbly waiter stopped by asking what they’d like to drink. Dean ordered a coffee, Stiles just asked for a bottle of water.

“So,” Stiles said watching Colin disappear through the doors to the kitchen. “We just gonna watch him or are we actually gonna talk to him?”

Dean rolled his eyes flipping through the menu. “Patience, young padawan.”

Stiles blinked. “You know Star Wars?”

“Of course,” Dean said then gave Stiles an intense look. “If you haven’t I might have to reassess this whole keeping you thing.”

“Nah, Star Wars is awesome,” Stiles said before the second part of Dean’s sentence really sunk in. “Wait you want to keep me?” he asked urgently as the waiter came back with their drinks.

“You guys ready to order?” he asked cheerfully, pen poised ready to write on his pad and oblivious to the slight glare Stiles was sending his way.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll take a double bacon cheeseburger with fries. No lettuce or tomato,” Dean said.

“Okay, and you?” the waiter said turning to Stiles.

“I’ll have the same. Just with the lettuce and tomato. Oh and onion, please,” Stiles said not breaking eye contact with Dean.

“Sure thing. It’ll be out in a few,” the waiter said snapping his pad shut and sauntering away.

“If you keep staring at me like that your face is going to freeze,” Dean commented sipping at his coffee.

“No it won’t. So do you really want me to stay?”

Dean smirked. “If you prove yourself useful.”

“Have I been anything but useful to you?” Stiles grumbled slouching in the booth and picking at his napkin. Dean grunted noncommittally flipping through the dessert menu. Stiles sighed reaching out to grab the saltshaker he began sliding back and forth between his hands.

Colin returned from the kitchen beginning to gather up more dishes from other booths near theirs. He looked exhausted, eyes red rimmed and with dark circles beneath them. Up close like this it was evident Colin hadn’t taken Jeremy’s death well at all. Stiles felt bad for him. He knew how it felt first hand after all.

“He doesn’t look so good,” Stiles muttered, leaning forward and subtly inclining his head to Colin who sniffed and rubbed his face into his shoulder. Dean twisted around staring at Colin quite obviously. “Dean,” Stiles hissed.”

Dean waved him off. “Oh my god, I don’t believe it. Colin, man, is that you?” he said pushing up from the table. “You are so much taller!”

Stiles shook his head rolling his eyes. Colin wasn’t much younger than they were. Actually, Colin was a year older than Stiles was. Dean was really overselling it.

“Sorry?” Colin stammered looking a little like he thought Dean might murder him. “Do I know you?”

Luckily Colin was probably too wrapped up in grief and self-hatred to notice any discrepancies in the story Dean would shortly be spinning.

“Colin, right?” Dean said warmly grasping Colin’s shoulder. He was standing off-center from Colin, giving the other man an escape route. It was a good idea, Stiles hadn’t thought any of the Winchesters capable of not be completely threatening and intimidating, but as it turned out Dean could be a pretty convincing empathizer. “I’m Dean, that’s my little brother Stiles. We’re Jeremy’s cousins from outta town. It’s been awhile since we came in to visit but given the circumstances…” Dean trailed off shifting uncertainly.

“Oh, yeah,” Colin said, still seeming a little wary but offering Dean a heartfelt smile. “I think I remember you. I’m, uh, sorry about Jer…your cousin,” he substituted quickly when his voice caught on Jeremy’s name.

“Thank you,” Dean said, still exuding absolute sincerity. “Hey, why don’t you sit with us for a few minutes? I like to talk for a few minutes.”

“Uh,” Colin stumbled glancing back over to the kitchen area. “I guess I could take a break.”

“Great!” Dean said, guiding Colin over to their booth and ushering him in beside Stiles who obligingly slid over to make room. “Stiles, you remember Colin don’t you?”

“Sure. Nice to see you again, dude,” Stiles said. “Wish it were under better conditions.”

“Yeah,” Colin said softly dropping his gaze to the table.

Dean leaned his elbows on the table. “We’re sorry about Jeremy too,” he said. “I know you guys were close.”

Colin huffed out a laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Jeremy was actually what we were hoping to talk to you about,” Dean said. “Stiles and I talked with his dad earlier. He said you might be able to clear up a little more about what happened. Stiles and I, we just can’t wrap our head around it, you know?”

Colin nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I can’t tell you much. I’ve told the cops pretty much everything.”

Stiles frowned. “What do you mean pretty much?”

Colin flushed stammering, “Well, I mean, everything that was pertinent. Jeremy and I, we went to this party down by the river. Some bonfire thing, I don’t even know who actually was throwing it but everyone just kind of showed up, you know? There’s always some party going on and their pretty much open invitation. So we went, thought it would be fun. We didn’t party much, but we thought it would be fun,” he shrugged.

“So what happened at the party?” Dean asked. “Did you guys talk to anyone there? Hang out with any new people? See anything, uh, weird?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him, shaking his head a bit in disbelief. Did the hunter actually think that was subtle?

“Uh, no,” Colin said shifting his long legs uncomfortably. “Not really. I mean, we didn’t really spend the whole party together. We, uh, actually had a fight early in the night. And Jeremy kind of started drinking more. After that. I tried to get him to leave with me but he was…pretty mad. At me.”

“That sucks,” Stiles said with a wince. “So the last time you talked to him…”

“Was when we fought, yeah,” Colin said wringing the dishtowel he was holding between his hands.

“I’m really sorry,” Stiles said.

“It’s all right,” Colin said, reflexively probably, because no it was not all right. Stiles couldn’t imagine loosing someone on bad terms. Allison in the midst of the Nogitsune mess had been bad enough. Colin laughed a bit breathlessly. “I mean, it’s not, but what are you gonna do about it, right?”

“Did you see him at all?” Dean asked. “After your fight, I mean.”

Colin nodded. “Yeah, actually. I saw him leaving with some girl.”

“What girl?” Dean asked the same time Stiles spouted, “Did you know her?”

Colin glanced between them. “No, I didn’t recognize her. All I know is she was a Native. It was kind of a stomp dance thing so there were quite a few of them there.”

“Stomp dance?” Stiles repeated. “You mean from the Native Americans? I didn’t think that was done at casual parties.”

Colin shrugged. “I dunno. But that’s what they call it. I’d seen the girl dancing earlier, she was dressed pretty traditionally so she kind of stood out, you know? But neither one of us talked to her until I saw Jeremy leaving with her. I tried to, I dunno, intercept them, Jeremy looked really drunk, you know? But he was still pissed at me. The girl asked if I wanted to go with them but she kind of gave off a weird vibe.”

“What kind of vibe?” Stiles interrupted. “Like You’re Strange And I Don’t Know You weird vibe or If You Come With Me You’ll End Up Dead In The Woods weird vibe?”

Dean shot him a warning look and Colin stared at him wide eyed. “Neither. Just…weird. She gave me a weird feeling. So I tried to get Jeremy to come with me again but he just yelled and swore at me and then they left.” 

“Colin, what are you doing?” the waiter said returning to their table and laying down their plates. “Mark isn’t paying you to chitchat with customers.”

“Sorry, uh, Phil, that was my fault,” Dean said quickly grabbing the waiter’s name off his tag. “I just wanted to talk to him for a few minutes about Jeremy.”

Phil’s face softened a little at that. “A real tragedy that was. You knew Jeremy?”

“He was our cousin,” Stiles said. “And yes it was a tragedy. A bit of a shock for the family.”

“Oh, well I’m sorry for your loss then,” Phil said pausing for a beat uncomfortably before saying, “Come now, Colin, back to work,” and quickly disappearing back to the kitchen. Stiles didn’t blame him, dealing with grieving people, or even just people you just _thought_ were grieving, was always a bit awkward.

“I guess I should get back to work,” Colin said standing. “It was nice to see you both again. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

“You were plenty helpful, Colin,” Dean said. “Thanks for you time.”

“Sure, uh, enjoy your meal,” Colin said stumbling over his words and promptly following Phil’s previous path into the kitchen.

“So. Where’s that leave us?” Stiles asked. “A Native American girl who gave a dude weird feelings.”

“No idea,” Dean said digging into his fries with gusto. “With more research. You should be excited though.”

Stiles frowned warily. “Why?”

“Because you were right,” Dean said around a large mouthful of burger. He chewed for a moment then swallowed. “It’s not a spirit. Unfortunately, that means we have no idea what it is.”

* * *

Jeremy’s other friends hadn’t been much more helpful than Colin had. Actually, they’d been less helpful since none of them had gone to the same party. But Taylor, the apparent party girl of the group, had noted seeing a person fitting Colin’s description of their mystery girl at several other parties. Native American, traditionally dressed, always went home with someone and no one seemed to know who she was.

So it was back to the motel room to do more research. Dean pushed the door open to the motel room, kicking the corner lightly as it stuck. Stiles followed him in still running his mouth; he’d been talking nearly non-stop since they’d left the last house and it was starting to grate on Dean’s nerves. It wasn’t that what Stiles was saying was nonsense—he seemed to be using Dean as a sort of sounding board although he rarely let Dean get a word in edgewise—but there really wasn’t much to go off and Stiles was basically running in circles. It was exhausting.

Dean kicked the door shut behind him, pulling his coat off and tossing it to the bed before heading to his dad’s duffel and digging through it for the journal. Based on the limited information they had Dean had no idea what this thing was. Not a spirit, at least not a typical spirit. No, it was much more likely to be a creature of some sort, and Dean hoped something in the journal would fit.

“What’s that?” Stiles asked sounding incredibly interested as Dean pulled the well-worn journal from his dad’s duffle. “Is that your bestiary?”

Dean blinked looking over at him and raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Our what now?”

“Your bestiary,” Stiles repeated, excitement bleeding into his tone as he crossed the motel room and reached out for the book. Dean pulled it back out of his reach a little concerned for Stiles’ state of mind.

“Oh no, you don't get to touch,” Dean said holding the book back and over his shoulder. “It’s not a…bestiary. This is my dad’s journal. It’s got everything he knows about every evil thing.”

Stiles frowned and furrowed his brow. “So, it _is_ a bestiary?”

Now Dean frowned. “I don’t think you know what that word means. I think you’re talking about—”

“So help me god, if you even mention bestiality I will punch you in the face,” Stiles said flatly. “I’m talking about bestiaries. Books that detail encounters or information on supposedly mythical creatures.”

Oh. Dean pursed his lips before conceding with a slight nod.  “Then I guess this is a bestiary. How did _you_ know that?”

“It’s what other hunters call their books,” Stiles explained. “I thought it would be a universal thing.”

“No,” Dean said still regarding Stiles intently and shaking his head. “It’s really not. What other hunters have you been hanging aground with?”

“Not really important,” Stiles said waving his hand as if to brush the conversation to the side. Dean filed the bit of information away for later. “So what are we looking for in this journal?”

“ _We_ are looking for nothing,” Dean said dropping into a chair at the table and flipping open the journal. Stiles inched closer to him peeking over his shoulder. Dean flattened his hand over the journal pages and shooed Stiles away.

“Oh come on!” Stiles whined. “I’m supposed to be learning, aren’t I?”

“And you’ll be allowed near the book when you’re proven worthy,” Dean said. “For now, you work your Google-fu over there, all right?”

Stiles rolled his eyes but obligingly stalked over to his cot and folding himself down on it. “Fine,” he muttered pulling his laptop from his bag and booting it up. “I’ll just sit over here. On my computer. Looking through all the supernatural stuff I’ve probably already looked over. On the Internet. And not the fascinating little book you’ve got over there.”

“Oh grow up,” Dean snipped flipping through the journal pages. “You sound like my actual brother.” Stiles stuck his tongue out at Dean before focusing on his laptop and beginning to type furiously. Dean rolled his eyes skimming his dad’s cramped handwriting for anything about Native American women or trampled victims.

It was nearly half an hour before Stiles spoke again, which was probably a personal record for the day. Dean had called his dad to give him an update and looked through over half the journal finding absolutely nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly; it was low enough that Dean almost missed it. Dean paused in his reading, glancing over at the boy who was staring intently at his laptop screen. “For yelling earlier,” Stiles elaborated when Dean didn’t reply. “I wasn’t really mad at you. I mean, I was, but not entirely at you. It’s just…the whole point of all of this is to learn how to better protect myself, and if you and John are just focused on protecting me all the time then,” he shrugged tapping his fingers along his keyboard, “it just wouldn't work quite as well.”

Dean nodded going back to deciphering his dad’s penmanship. “Well, I’m sorry if I made you feel…inadequate or something,” he said after Stiles was silent a moment.

Stiles looked up at that and shook his head. “That wasn’t…you didn’t make me feel…” he stopped seeming to struggle with what he was trying to say. “It just…didn’t end well for the last people who tried to protect me,” he murmured dropping his gaze back to his computer. 

Dean swallowed focusing all his attention on the journal. “What happened to them?” he asked, careful to keep his tone distinctly disinterested yet still supportive. It was a technique he’d mastered with Sam during some of the more difficult teenage months. Not delving too deeply in to their privacy but just leaving the door open so to speak.

Stiles snorted returning to his reading. “You’re not an idiot, Dean, what do you think happened?”

And, yeah, Dean knew what probably happened. It was the classic backstory for a hunter. Dead family. Dead friends. Dead somebody. Nobody got into this line of work for the hell of it or to play Good Samaritan. “They’re dead then?” he said.

Stiles was quiet, Dean thought maybe he’d gone to blunt with his statement, then, “Not all of them.”

Dean frowned turning so he could watch Stiles’ face more clearly. “So where are they?”

“Home,” Stiles answered shortly.

Dean watched him a moment realization dawning. “And they don’t know where you are, do they?” he asked. Several more pieces of the puzzle surrounding Stiles clicked into place and he inwardly saddened at the image they were making.

Stiles shook his head silently.

“Why?” Dean said unable to grasp how Stiles could keep something like that from people he considered friends or family. “Do they have _any_ idea where you are or what you’re doing?”

“No,” Stiles said clicking on something with more force than he usually used, “because it’s safer for them.”

Dean sighed scrubbing a hand over his face. “Stiles, you can’t keep people safe by keeping them in the dark,” he said.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I never said they were in the dark.”

Dean sighed again, this time at the maze of contradictions that seemingly made up Stiles’ story. “Okay, wait, so they, whoever they even is, know about the supernatural?”

Stiles nodded. “Yup,” he said.

“So why are you here and why haven’t you told them?”

“Because knowing about the supernatural doesn’t equate to _knowing_ about the supernatural like you and John do,” Stiles said. “And because I don’t think they’d be happy about me hanging around with you.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and your dad have a bit of a reputation,” Stiles said.

“A reputation?”

Stiles looked puzzled, eyeing Dean in surprise. “You really have no idea what the rest of the hunting community thinks of your dad? Do you live under a rock?”

Dean shrugged sitting back in his chair. “I haven’t really met a lot of other hunters. Dad doesn’t work with anyone else usually.”

“Maybe not now,” Stiles commented. “But he was allegedly pretty terrifying to work with when you and Sam were kids.”

Dean shook his head pushing his chair back from the table. “Just how much do you actually know about me and my dad? You act like you don’t know anything, but that’s not true is it?”

“I know you guys are hunters, I knew you had a brother and though no one I talked to before knew where he was I know that now too, I know that your mom supposedly died in a house fire, and I know that John became a very good and very brutal hunter, and I know he raised you and Sam on the road. I know John is well respected by other hunters, but he’s also feared, I guess that might not be the right word, but a lot of people warned me not to get involved with him,” Stiles admitted.

“And how much do you know about the supernatural?” Dean pushed.

“Now? Well there’s ghosts, sprites, shapeshifters, witches, magic, magical plants, salt is apparently amazing, and then there’s whatever the hell this thing is,” Stiles said gesturing to the small stack of papers they had on the Sperry killings.

Dean sighed running a hand over his mouth and deciding to leave the Stiles subject alone for the time being. Stiles was not one to give answers lightly and Dean didn’t want to push too far; Stiles had already given him more answers than Dean had thought he would. “So you haven’t found anything either?”

“Not yet,” Stiles said sullenly seeming to accept the topic change gratefully. “There’s a lot of information to sift through here. I keep trying to narrow down my search terms but I’m getting a lot of irrelevant hits.”

“So you tracked down Bobby and my dad but you can’t figure out what this thing is?” Dean said. “I’m so disappointed.”

Stiles glared at him, mouth open indignantly for a moment before the sarcasm registered. “Oh shut up you…you…I can’t think of an insult right now, just be quiet and go back to perusing that fascinating book of yours.”

Dean chuckled but did return to the journal although he doubted he’d find anything at this point. The end of the journal was comprised mostly of creatures indigenous to the New England area and the very end was all information about the demon his dad had compiled over the years. Nevertheless, he would read through them on the off chance that one entry would mention trampled men or Native American woman.

“Oh,” Stiles said sitting up suddenly and scrambling towards the table. “Dean look at this. I think I’ve got something.” He set his computer on the table double clicking to enlarge the article. Dean leaned closer to read the text.

“You think this is it?” he asked.

Stiles shrugged scrolling through the page. “Well it seems to fit. Native American legend. Trampled men to death. Everything we know, although it’s not much, fits.”

“All right,” Dean said. “I'll call dad and update him. Let’s figure out everything we can about Deer Women.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter to be added soon! 
> 
> Follow me [here](www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
>  


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

“What exactly are we hoping to accomplish here?” Stiles asked shifting around for the millionth time to try and get comfortable. His back and legs ached and a relentless energy was buzzing beneath his skin making the need to move almost impossible to ignore. It was times like this he’d usually pace or go for a run just to take the edge off. Stuck where he was now, though, neither of those were available options.

Dean sighed. “We’re looking for a woman fitting our description. This was the bar most of the men frequented. Stands to reason we might find her here while Dad works on digging up more information.”

Stiles shifted again, rolling his shoulders and drumming his fingers on his leg absently while he contemplated the limited amount of lore he’d been able to access about Deer Women earlier. “But is that really a good idea? We shouldn’t really be, like, confronting her right off the bat without knowing more, should we? I mean, she’s got like mind whammy powers or something so I don’t know if direct contact is a good idea.”

“We’re not supposed to confront her,” Dean said exasperatedly laying one arm across the steering wheel. “We’re just looking to see if we can identify her. And for the last time get your feet off the dash and sit still,” he said swatting at Stiles’ knee. “What are you, five?”

Stiles scowled but obligingly folded his legs back down to the foot-well. He ignored the last part, however, opting to bounce his leg to try and burn out some energy. “No,” he answered sullenly. “But we’ve been sitting here for the last three hours. I don’t know how much attention you’ve actually paid in the past weeks, but I don’t really sit still in one spot for that long. Like ever. Hell, I’m lucky to make it a few minutes without moving. My record’s like four thirty something. So excuse me if I need to fidget to keep from spontaneously combusting.”

“Record?” Dean repeated turning from the bar to Stiles and cocking his head in perceptive interest.

Stiles glanced at him and hesitated a moment before explaining vaguely, training his gaze back on the bar. “My friend and I used to play this game when we were younger. He’d sit on the couch, and I’d lay down with my head in his lap, and he’d time how long I could hold still. Used to be I couldn’t even make it a full minute. By the end though I was hitting four minutes or three at the least.”

“So you literally can’t sit still?” Dean asked narrowing his eyes like he was trying to figure out the placement of an odd shaped puzzle piece.

“Not for long, no,” Stiles replied shifting his position yet again. “I imagine I could probably sit still longer now if I had my meds or the right motivation but as it is at the moment,” he shrugged moving to pick at the plastic on door and leaning forward to inspect a group of women making their way up to the bar, “not worth the struggle.”

“Meds?” Dean said frowning and shaking his head slightly. “What are you on meds for?”

Stiles slouched against the door, propping his hand in his chin. “I’m usually on Adderall for ADHD.”

Dean blinked then raised his brows like everything suddenly made a bit more sense. “That’s the attention disorder, right?” he asked humming thoughtfully when Stiles nodded. “What do you mean by usually on? Docs took you off?”

“No,” Stiles said. “I ran out and haven’t had a chance to get more.”

Dean frowned once more turning to face Stiles a bit more directly. “Well, why didn’t you say something? I would have taken you to a pharmacy.”

Stiles laughed lightly but with a hint of bitterness. “That’s a sweet sentiment, Dean, really. But getting Adderall isn’t easy, at least not legally. I need a prescription, which I don’t have at the moment.”

“If you need a prescription I can—” Dean started.

Stiles leaned forward abruptly, dropping his hand heavily onto Dean’s arm to cut the other man off. “Dean,” he said gesturing towards the woman approaching the bar. She was tall with long dark hair that billowed in the slight breeze as she walked. She was dressed in high-waist jeans, dark boots, and a red halter-top that showed off her sleek shoulders.

“You think?” Dean asked sounding a bit skeptic. “She’s not exactly in traditional dress.”

Stiles licked his lips thinking. She was definitely something, maybe not the Deer Woman but definitely important; there was an odd charge to the air, a pull that zeroed in all his focus to her. He was shoving the car door open and slipping out without a second thought as she greeted the doorman and disappeared into the bar.

“Stiles,” Dean hissed pushing his own door open. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I'm going to talk to her,” Stiles said.

“What?” Dean said incredulously. “No you’re not. Get back in the car.”

Stiles ignored him, rounding the Impala and almost halfway across the parking lot before Dean snagged his shoulder and yanked him around.

“The fuck are you doing, man? What happened to ‘maybe we shouldn’t confront her’ and ‘she might be really dangerous, Dean,’” the hunter asked keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Stiles’ elbow.

Stiles stared at Dean’s hand a moment then looked back to the hunter’s face. “Look, I just want to talk to her. No big deal. I won’t leave with her or anything. And come on, we don’t even know if it’s her.”

“All the more reason to not talk to her,” Dean said. “So get back in the car.”

Stiles rolled his eyes tugging his arm from Dean’s hold. “No. If you like your car so much, you go sit in it for another hour. I’m going inside,” he said shoving his hands in his pockets and walking away. He heard Dean mutter, “unbelievable,” under his breath followed with a few choice phrases Stiles’ dad would have never stood for Stiles ever saying, but then there were crunching footfalls behind him catching up just as Stiles handed over his fake ID to the bouncer.

He rolled his eyes as the man inspected his ID far more closely than anyone really needed too. Admittedly it was a fake, but there was no way some barman would be able to tell. Eventually the man waved him forward and Stiles stepped inside instantly beginning to scan the crowded room for the woman. The bar was small, tables and booths spread out around the actual bar, a little close but not too cramped. The entire floor was crowded with people talking loudly to be heard over one another. On the far end of the room Stiles caught sight of sign indicating there was a downstairs, no doubt the origin of the muffled music Stiles could just hear over the cacophony of the people.

Dean entered after him, pausing just behind Stiles shoulder. He nudged Stiles’ arm pointing to the back corner. “There,” he said directly in Stiles’ ear. The woman was talking to a few other people, but appeared to be seated alone. Stiles wondered if she was a regular to have a reserved booth or incredibly lucky to have arrived just in time to find a recently vacated one.

Stiles pushed his way through the people, getting elbowed and stepped on more than once on his way to the back booth. The two men the woman had been talking to were thankfully leaving once he made it to the table and he collapsed into the booth with a sigh of relief. He offered the woman a sheepish grin as she arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow over a deep brown eye.

“Sorry,” he said pouring ever ounce of sincerity into the word. “Do you mind terribly if I sit for a while? It’s pretty crowded.”

She glanced over the crowded floor before pursing her lips a bit and shrugging. “It is fairly crowded,” she commented.

Stiles nodded drumming his fingers on the table. “I’m not from around here. Is it always like this?”

The woman tilted her head to the left, a section of glossy hair sliding over her shoulder. “Well, it _is_ Wednesday,” she said drawing the words out slowly like the day of the week held great importance.

Stiles blinked. “I have no idea why that matters,” he admitted.

The woman laughed, head tilted back and eyes twinkling. “Cheap beer,” she said in explanation. “Everyone comes out on Wednesdays.”

“Ah,” Stiles said. “Bet that’s really popular with the college kids.”

She smiled again. “It is,” she agreed extending a slender hand across the table. “I’m Wyanet.”

Stiles returned the smile grasping her hand after only a moment of hesitation. “Stiles,” he said glancing to the left as Dean finally made it to the booth, giving Wyanet an intense once over before sliding in beside Stiles and pushing a drink towards him. “And this is Dean. Dean, this is Wyanet.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean said glancing over to Stiles.

“So what are you boys in town for?” Wyanet asked taking a sip from her drink.

Stiles shrugged pointing at Dean. “Just passing through. My brother and I are on a kind of road trip, I suppose. Just seeing the world, going where we please, doing what we want. You know, the whole ask forgiveness not permission type of deal.”

“Wow,” she said looking vaguely impressed. “That sounds…really freeing. How’d you end up in Sperry of all places?”

“Wrong turn off the interstate?” Dean said. Stiles kicked him under the table. “We like the small towns,” he amended. “Meet a lot of interesting people. Find a lot of interesting things. Participate in a lot of interesting activities.”

“Oh yeah? What sorts of interesting people?” Wyanet asked, resting her chin on her hand and grinning genially at Dean. She held her glass easily by the rim with slim fingers, rolling it slowly as Dean spoke.

“All sorts. The kind that tell the sort of stories you just don’t know if you can believe. For example we talked to a guy yesterday who told us of a legend for around here. You remember that, Stiles?” Dean said sending Stiles a sharp grin. Wyanet glanced between them eyes narrowed like she thought they were up to something.

Stiles licked his lips taking a quick drink from his glass. “Right. Nice, older gentleman. Talked about the deaths that have been happening here recently. Said it happened before too.”

Wyanet nodded, frowning lightly. “That’s true. My mother used to worry sick about my father. The last rash of killings happened when I was a young girl, you know. And my dad, well, he liked his liquor.”

“Do you remember much about the deaths?” Stiles asked, leaning forward a bit to rest his elbows on the sticky table. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Wyanet shrugged tossing her hair over her shoulder and giving Stiles an indulgent smile. “Not much. I was, hmm, oh I must have been four or five. Young, but impressionable. Mostly I just remember everyone talking about it in hushed whispers. You know, the way adults do when they want to really gossip but a child’s nearby. Used to say all sorts of things about the first men that went missing. Oh, poor Hillary, did you hear Jim skipped off in the night without so much as a goodbye? Good for Johnny, he escaped Beverly’s clutches before she sank her claws in to deep. Has anyone heard from Fred lately? Maybe he’s gone off his meds again.”

Stiles winced while Dean pulled a disgusted expression. “Wow,” he said. “That’s…harsh.”

Wyanet nodded, taking a deep drink before saying. “No kidding. But small towns can be brutal. Everyone is in everyone’s business. Of course once they started showing up dead, then people started singing a different tune.”

“Did you know any of the guys that went missing this time?” Stiles asked.

Wyanet shook her head with a shallow exhale. “No…not really. I met Jeremy once or twice. At parties, you know? Small town, all us college kids run into each other at some point. Especially the ones that actually live here. But I didn’t know any of the others.”

“The man we talked to the other day,” Dean started. “He had some pretty interesting theories on what was killing these guys.”

Wyanet paused in taking a drink resting the glass against her lips a moment while she glanced between the two of them warily. “What,” she repeated slowly lowering her glass. “Don’t you mean who?”

Dean shrugged taking a long pull from his beer bottle. “He seemed to think it was a what, not a who.”

Wyanet laughed, looking from Dean to Stiles and eventually raising her eyebrows when they remained solemn. “Oh my god, you guys are serious. Who were you talking to? It was Old Samuel, wasn't it? From the reservation. You can’t listen to him. Man’s touched, you know?” she said tapping her temple.

Dean chuckled then shrugged gesturing a little helplessly. “You have to admit though, his stories are quite captivating.”

Wyanet rolled her eyes, seeming to relax again and taking a drink as she peered out across the crowd of people. “I suppose. Which one did you two hear?”

“He thinks the deaths might be caused by Deer Women,” Stiles said, watching her reaction closely. There was still an odd thrum of energy surrounding her, a kind of charge to the air.

Her lips stretched into a fond smile as she tapped her fingers along her glass. “Ah, Deer Women. Good story.”

“You’re familiar with them?” Dean asked.

“You could say that,” she said. “Most on the reservation are. Part of our culture, you know,” she said with a short laugh. “And I will admit I do find them quite fascinating.”

“Which part?” Dean said. “The trample men to death part or the feet like deer part?”

Wyanet laughed again leaning on the table and pointing a slender finger at the hunter. “Oh I like you, Dean. And to answer your question, all parts. Deer Women are an old tale, you know. So much more than trampling men to death or having hooves instead of feet. Do you know why these women trample men?”

“For cheating,” Stiles said watching Wyanet’s dark brown eyes flick to him. “Or being licentious.”

“Among other things,” she said pinning Stiles with an intense look. “But yes, adultery and promiscuity are pretty common. Some talk about how Deer Women are dark things. Omens of death and destruction. But that’s not entirely true. Other stories talk about their symbolism for change and growth. There are even some tales about the men they entice and how they’re given a choice to either remain with the Deer Woman or return a changed man to their wife. If he chooses to stay _then_ she stomps him to death,” she said with a sharp grin and punctuating her statement with a slap to the table. “If he chooses to leave…well then he goes home a better person.”

Dean cocked his head at her. “You seem very knowledgeable on them,” he commented.

Wyanet sighed and offered them a sheepish grin. “I may or may not have a section on them in my thesis,” she admitted tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“That’s really interesting. What are you studying?” Stiles asked.

Wyanet laughed. “You don’t have to lie, I know it’s kind of lame. I study literature. Been focusing on Native American lit in the past few years.”

Stiles blinked and shook his head. “That’s definitely not lame,” he said. Dean sent him a sidelong glance that clearly conveyed he thought differently, but Stiles ignored him. “That sounds awesome. I love Coyote myself.”

Wyanet stiffened a little, tapping her finger along the edge of her glass. Dean shifted beside Stiles, subtly reaching into his coat to where Stiles was sure some variation of a dagger or handgun hid. “Coyote,” she said slowly. “Greedy, reckless, arrogant. Never liked him much myself to be honest. He embodies much of what I hate in this world.”

Stiles nudged Dean with his foot cocking his head slightly to the side. “What’s that?”

Wyanet flicked her gaze to Dean then narrowed her eyes at him. “Entitlement,” she said.

* * *

“Well that was one of the weirdest conversations I’ve ever had with a woman,” Dean remarked pulling out from the bar after looking left, right, then left again. Because he was a responsible citizen regardless of what Sam tried to tell people.

Stiles shot him a sidelong glance raising a skeptical eyebrow. “For some reason I doubt that.”

Dean pulled a face at him—thought back to that one conversation with the waitress at the truck stop in Tulsa about the bizarre rash—then shrugged. “So did you glean anything I didn’t from that conversation?” he asked. He was a little lost about the whole deal. For one, Stiles had been oddly intent on talking to some lady who didn’t even fit the profile beyond being a Native American woman. For two, if that was the expression, she had seemed very odd herself quickly dismissing them after Stiles showed more than passing interest in her work. Dean had the feeling, though, that Stiles had understood more of the conversation than he had and it wasn’t only because of his lack of interest in literature.

“Well that really depends on what you gleaned from the conversation, don’t it?” Stiles said rhetorically, neatly and obviously avoiding the question Dean noted, before continuing on and saying, “I think she’s definitely connected to whatever is going on here but I’m not sure how.”

“You don’t think she’s a Deer Woman?” Dean said tapping his fingers along the steering wheel.

Stiles shook his head with a shrug. “I dunno, don’t think so. But I’m not the expert here.”

“Maybe not,” Dean said turning up the street for the public library, “but you’re also not as clueless as you like to pretend.”

“I promise you, Dean,” Stiles said sounding almost amused, “that I know exactly as much about this Deer Woman lore thing as you do.”

“Well that was specifically specific,” Dean said under his breath. He navigated the street carefully before pulling up next to the public library and knocking the Impala into park. He tugged his phone out of his pocket, shooting a quick text to Dad to let him know they were here, before leaning his elbow on the door and regarding Stiles thoughtfully.

“What?” Stiles asked sounding guarded and fidgeting in his seat. To be completely honest Dean didn’t think Stiles had really ever stopped moving since they left the bar. Whether it was pent up energy, anxiety from the hunt, or something else entirely, Stiles could probably use a good work out. Plus his fidgeting would probably annoy the living hell out of Dad. God knew his old man had snapped at Dean to settle down enough over the years.

“You and I should go for a run later,” he said in answer to Stiles question nodding to Stiles’ bouncing leg when the brunet pulled a confused expression. “Work off some energy.”

Stiles scowled making a visible effort to still his leg and slouching in his seat. “I can think of better ways to do that than running,” he muttered crossing his arms and seemingly unaware his other leg was already jumping up and down adding a barely audible squeak from his shoes to the sounds of the car running.

Dean flushed a little at the, probably unintentional, innuendo and looked quickly to the library doors watching for his dad. “Yeah, well, running’s good exercise. Builds strength and endurance. Not to mention cardio,” he said catching sight of Dad pushing the doors open and quickly descending the stairs leading up to the building.

Stiles snorted slouching further in his seat and muttering, “Cardio. Fucking hate cardio,” under his breath as John approached the car. Dean moved to nudge Stiles as a reminder that he’d need to relocate his cardio hating butt to the backseat, but Dad waved him off, sliding without protest into the backseat himself.

“See anything useful at the bar, boys?” he asked in lieu of a standard greeting. Well, for Dad it pretty much was his standard greeting.

“Depends,” Dean replied pulling away from the curb and heading back to the motel. “We talked to a woman. Native American. Seems a potential link to the case but it’s unclear. She did talk a little bit about Deer Women though. And she was a little girl during the last set of killings in ninety-two.”

“I told you two to watch, not talk,” Dad said gruffly. “You were supposed to stay in the car, Dean.”

Dean pursed his lips catching the steely look of resolve that was sliding down over Stiles’ expression and interjected quickly, “I know. But I thought she might our Deer Lady.”

Dad was silent a moment, and Dean could practically feel the glare no doubt directed at the back of his head. He grimaced looking again to Stiles and somewhat puzzled at the critical expression the younger man wore. He quirked a brow in question, but Stiles only subtly shook his head before turning back to the window.

“If you thought she might be our target you never should have talked to her, Dean. You could have spooked her, alerted her to our presence, gotten yourself or Stiles hurt. Did you think of that?” Dad said.

“Yes, sir. Just wanted to make sure she didn’t get some other poor shmuck. Figured Stiles and I were safe enough as a pair,” Dean said carefully maintaining his tone as unchallenging.

John sighed, long and disappointed, making Dean wince as he took the left turn for the motel’s street. “Well you were wrong,” John said dismissively, rustling papers through his hands. “Deer Women aren’t solitary creatures. They hunt in pairs mostly. Sometimes more. You could have gotten Stiles and you killed. PT for both of you once we’re back.”

Dean tapped his fingers along the steering wheel feeling almost like he’d fallen into the twilight zone of familiarity. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Stiles said, already feeling short of breath even though they were barely ten minutes into their run.

“Do what?” Dean asked in a completely normal tone as he kept an easy and even pace next to Stiles. Stiles was about eighty-nine percent certain Dean could leave his sorry ass in the dust without breaking a sweat if the hunter wanted to. He flashed back briefly to his first run with Dean where he’d failed to make it even halfway around the block before practically collapsing in a pile of shaking limbs and heaving lungs. It’d been humiliating to say the least, watching Dean shrink into the distance while his body tried to shake apart and he gasped for air. Now, three weeks and many runs later, he was making solid improvement but still nowhere near his former level of fitness. To be completely honest, even now most runs ended with him in a verifiable heap of wretchedness on the ground.

“Take the blame from your dad,” Stiles said. Or wheezed more precisely as he continued to pound his feet rhythmically into the pavement. If he kept his rhythm he probably wouldn’t fall over this time. Probably. “It was my idea. To leave the car.”

Dean shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulders that reminded Stiles a lot of Scott in the lack of effort it took for him to move. “Not a big deal. Figured you probably didn’t want to be on his bad side since you want to stick around. Best way to get yourself kicked to the curb at Bobby’s is to not do what he tells you to do. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you kind of suck at doing what you’re told to do.”

Stiles grunted, half because he was annoyed Dean could make a whole mini-speech without really panting, like at all, while still jogging full speed, and half because, well, he lacked the needed air to do much else. “Trust me,” he managed to push out in harsh puffs. “I’ve been on the bad side. Of parents and authority figures. Enough times to figure out. How to work with it.”

Dean tilted his head to run an appraising gaze over Stiles, pursing his lips like he was personally offended Stiles still sucked at this whole exercising thing. “I thought you said you used to do lacrosse and track.”

“I also said not to expect much,” Stiles replied following after Dean as they rounded a corner and stumbling a bit on a loose rock. Dean made to steady him, but Stiles regained his footing easily enough with a bit of flailing.

“You did,” Dean said. “And I’m not. But, dude, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, you’re like majorly out of shape.”

Stiles rolled his eyes trying, and mostly failing, to settle his breathing into a rhythm with his steps. “Sorry we can’t all be in tip top hunter shape,” Stiles panted wincing as a stich began to develop in his right side. He could feel the sweat beginning to slide down his back and wrinkled his nose in distaste. One thing he hadn’t missed was sweating his ass off.

“I’m just wondering what happened to take you from lacrosse and track to barely running a mile. Seems like the sort of thing people keep up with after graduation and you’ve only been out of school like what, two years?” Dean said beginning to show the beginning signs of breathlessness. Hallelujah, the guy was not invincible.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said gulping in breaths of air between the words. “I evidently didn’t.”

“Any particular reason why?” Dean huffed.

Stiles grimaced at a particularly painful twinge and stumbled to a halt, immediately bracing his hands on his knees and sucking in greedy breaths. Dean’s shoes appeared in front of him, bouncing irritatingly as their owner continued to run in place as Stiles tried not to throw up. He’d done that a few times already as well. Dean had found it particularly amusing and Stiles had made a mental list of why it wasn’t a good idea to murder a hunter’s son.  

“You okay?”

“Fantastic,” Stiles said though the word was pretty much swallowed in his ragged breathing.

Dean continued to move, jogging lazy circles around him as Stiles waited for his heart to stop thumping quite so hard and his lungs to actually listen to him. “So, any particular reason why?” Dean asked again.

Stiles shook his head trying to think of a way to describe exactly how demonic possession screwed with one’s body. He was possessed by a Japanese hate-demon, mind-fucked into near insanity, literally thought his brain was atrophying, sleep-deprived, drugged, beat, all but starved, stabbed, puked up in a pile of bandages if Scott was to be believed, frozen from the inside out, drained of his life-force within literal inches of death, and then suddenly released after the death of a friend, an ally, and the annihilation of a good portion of his hometown population. All along side basically destroying the hospital’s electrical system, blowing up his dad’s workplace, stabbing his best friend with a fucking samurai sword, and shooting his coach with a crossbow.

“I got sick,” he settled on surprised a little when Dean stopped moving at the words.

“Sick?” the hunter repeated sounding almost concerned. “Like the sniffles for three days sick or three weeks in the hospital on IV fluids sick?”

“Like a few months of your body literally trying to kill you sick,” Stiles muttered wiping the back of his hand along his forehead. “Look, I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said straightening finally and taking a few deep breaths.

Dean stared at him intently a long moment before saying, “Is that why you don’t sleep?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, beginning to jog again though at a much slower pace. Dean trailed behind him then moved up along side him almost jogging backwards to keep watching Stiles’, though at this point he could probably just walk fast to keep up. Stiles contemplated lying to him, denying the sleep problems and any link to his so-called “illness” altogether, but it would provide a rather good explanation for his erratic sleep patterns Dean had evidently noticed. In the end he settled for simply sending Dean a sidelong glance and remaining quiet, letting the hunter draw what conclusions he wanted and making it clear the subject was dropped all the same.

Dean, surprisingly, didn’t push the topic and they finished the rest of the run, which was really more of a frequently pit-stopped jog, in companionable silence.

* * *

“There’s two Deer Woman as far as I can figure,” John said offering both Dean and Stiles a bottle of water almost as soon as they entered the hotel room. Dean took his gratefully, chugging nearly half of it in one gulp. “They tend to live in groups of two or more—”

“Don’t you mean herds?” Stiles asked taking a sip from his own water. John glared at him and Stiles quickly mimed zipping his mouth shut before dropping heavily into a kitchen chair and toeing off his tennis shoes.

“Like I said,” John continued, “they tend to live and hunt in groups of two or more. I think we’re only dealing with a pair given the number of victims.” He pulled some papers out of a stack spreading them out on the table. “I dug back and some victims disappeared from different bars or parties on the same night, but never more than two. Now, that girl you two talked to,” he said looking up to Dean, “she could be one of them.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said before he could remind his mouth to stay shut. John snapped his gaze back to Stiles. “I mean, I just don’t get the feeling she’s, uh, evil,” he said, shrinking a little under John’s glare and trying to explain his feeling without actually explaining it.

“Don’t be fooled by a pretty face, Stiles,” John said. “It doesn’t matter how innocent she looks, there’s always the potential for her to be a monster.”

“It’s not her pretty face,” Stiles protested. “I mean, yeah, sure, she was gorgeous, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I just don’t think she’s, you know, a monster.”

“Well, Stiles, when I want your opinion on something, I’ll ask,” John said in a tone that made it very clear he’d probably never ask. It was the kind of tone that made Stiles feel about two inches tall and recall some of the more major dressing-downs he’d received from Harris. “And until then you’ll shut up and do what I tell you to. Are we clear?”

Stiles slouched in his seat, casting his gaze somewhere above John’s left shoulder so he didn’t have to actually look at the man. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now these Deer Women are taking particular victims. Similar to Women in White, they’re taking men, and some women, who are unfaithful or promiscuous and probably a few other habits or behavior they deem worthy of penalty.”

“That’s pretty much what Wyanet told us. Entitlement, greed, gluttony, revelry, run of the mill sin stuff,” Dean said leaning his hands on the table. “What does lore say about kill the bitches?”

John sighed running a hand wearily over his beard. “Unfortunately, just about nothing. There are vague insinuations about tobacco and chanting but nothing concrete. Some sources say you can break their spell by looking at their feet, but nothing about how to kill them.”

“So…what do we do now?” Stiles said after a moment of silence looking between the two hunters.

“We look for more information,” John said pushing away from the table.

“And what if we can’t find anything?”

Dean glanced at his father before answering. “Then we fall back to the rule of three.”

Stiles frowned. “The rule of three?” he repeated.

“The basic three methods of killing all things evil,” Dean said raising a finger to tick off each item slowly. “One, silver bullet through the heart. Two, chop off its head. And, three, we torch the sucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week...you guys are gonna start expecting things of me.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for Dean to be alone looking for the Deer Women?” Stiles asked.

John didn’t even look at him only grit his teeth and reminded himself he made it through two teenagers already and he could do it again. Not that Stiles was a teenager, but he certainly seemed to act like it sometimes. “Well, you two proved yourselves unreliable together so, until further notice, you’re with me. And what did I say about your opinion?”

“Not to give it unless asked,” Stiles said tapping his pen on his notebook in his ever-constant fidget. He was quiet a moment, nibbling on the pen cap before saying, “Are you mad at me?”

The direct question gave John a pause, or perhaps it was the blunt way Stiles said it. Stiles didn’t sound overly worried, actually didn’t sound worried or concerned at all. Rather he sounded kind of bored with the idea. Like John being angry with him was a minor inconvenience worthy of little concern. The hunter sat back from the table regarding Stiles seriously a long moment with shrewd eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Stiles shrugged returning to his book and jotting down a few words. “No particular reason. You just seem lowkey pissed at something. And that something seems to be me.”

“You disobeyed an order,” John stated, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. And that was really the crux of his issue with Stiles at the moment. The boy didn’t listen. He’d done well up to a point, but somewhere between the last hunt and now his carefully constructed façade he’d kept up following all of John’s rules began crumbling and the biggest chunk was failing to follow orders.

Stiles snorted and the sound picked at John’s nerves with the blatant disrespect. “What, are Dean and I under martial law here? So we got out of the car and talked to a girl. Nothing bad happened.”

“Nothing bad happened this time,” John stressed, tone still reasonable yet harsh. “But you’re a bit of a live wire. You don’t listen well.”

“I’ve always lived by the idea that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Stiles quipped still skimming his reading and only giving the conversation half of his attention. John bristled at that; if Stiles cared as much as he claimed he could at least give his full attention to talking about it.

“You can’t ask for forgiveness when you’re dead,” John said gruffly falling back on his parental scolding like he never even stopped. His voice got progressively louder as he spoke and Stiles eventually stopped writing but continued to stare at his papers. “It’s better to obey orders than get yourself and others hurt or killed. That’s what you risk when you don’t listen to me, Stiles. You could have gotten yourself hurt or killed. You could have gotten Dean hurt or killed. So maybe everything turned out all right this time. What about next time? What happens when you decide an order is not worth following and Dean pays a price? What happens when you get an innocent civilian killed because you can’t follow simple directions?”

If John was a less observant man he would have missed how Stiles stiffened at that question. How his hand clenched around his pen until his fingertips were white and how his entire body just stilled in a single instance. It was a sign John hit a nerve with the boy and he pushed it. 

“To not listen to me is to endanger the lives of everyone around you. Not just me and Dean, but the life of every innocent person we’re doing this job to protect. So the next time you want to make your own decisions regarding a hunt that you are not trained for yet, I want you to think about that. Think about the innocent people you could be killing and try and decide if your ego is worth them dying because you didn’t want to listen to what I told you to do.”

“I’ve been listening to you!” Stiles yelled slamming his palm down onto the table sending a few papers and his pen flying off to the side to float or clatter to the floor. John fell silent regarding the outburst with an unimpressed expression fixed firmly on his features even as he was startled on the inside. “That is literally all I’ve _been_ doing,” Stiles said pushing away from the table and beginning to pace. “You tell me to research, I research. You tell me to do PT, so I run my ass off. You tell me not leave the motel room, I stay in a fucking prison for _hours_ while you and Dean do whatever it is you’re doing for the hunt.”

John raised an eyebrow unperturbed. “You done?”

“Not yet!” Stiles snapped. “Our deal was I listen and you teach me how to hunt. So far all I’ve done is research creatures I could have researched myself and learn how many times I can puke when running with a goddamn Michael Jordan. I know I’m not the poster child when I comes to obedience, John, really I know, but I think I’ve done pretty good so far.”

“You want to be on the front lines?” John asked pushing his chair back and stepping up to Stiles so the boy was forced to look up at him.

Stiles swallowed but drew himself up, raising his chin defiantly. “Yes.”

“My boys,” John said quietly meeting Stiles gaze and holding it, “did not come on a hunt with me until I was sure they would listen to everything I told them to do.”

“I am not your child,” Stiles said. “You can’t treat me like one.”

“As long as Dean’s safety is concerned, I can and I will. I won’t trust you on a hunt with us until I know you’ll listen to me. So if you want a shot at actually staying with us after South Dakota, you’ll shape up.”

Stiles took a step back, almost hitting the door, and dropped his gaze to the side almost visibly struggling to not say whatever it was he wanted to say. The action reminded John a lot of Sam before his youngest had abandoned such self-control and just said whatever was on his mind. Then Stiles blinked, stress and anger lines on his face smoothing out while his shoulders loosened, as he shot forward snatching the newspaper John had gotten earlier off the counter. He quickly unfolded it staring at the front page with wide eyes.  

“Old Samuel,” Stiles breathed. “Of course.”

John frowned as confused by the words as Stiles abrupt change in attitude. “What are you talking about?”

“Old Samuel,” Stiles repeated shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before. He turned the newspaper around tapping his finger on the image of an elderly Native American on the front page and shoving it towards John. “When I told Wyanet we talked to a man who said something was killing the men she _immediately_ assumed we talked to Old Samuel, a man on the reservation who is familiar with Deer Women. She said he was touched and we shouldn’t believe his stories. But what if he’s not touched?” Stiles said grinning as John accepted the newspaper to skim the article about the centenarian who’d celebrated his hundred and first birthday two weeks ago. “What if he’s completely rational and sane? What if he knows how to kill a Deer Woman?”

* * *

“I don’t like you,” Old Samuel said staring blankly at John like the hunter had asked for his firstborn rather than an interview for People. He was an astute looking old man, long hair still dark and an incredible amount of lines etched into his face, but Stiles would still say the dude didn’t look a day over seventy-five. Certainly not the one hundred and one he was supposed to be. And after spending only five seconds in the old guy’s company, Stiles already decided he liked him. “You’re a liar. And liars cannot be trusted.”

John and Stiles had driven over half an hour to visit the reservations only to find out that on weekdays Old Samuel was always at the small diner on Fifth Street at this time of day. Tracking the old man down from there wasn’t hard; there wasn’t exactly a thriving population of Native American centenarians running around Sperry even on a good day.

Stiles was just thankful to actually be here. John had contemplated leaving him behind in the motel room for approximately thirty seconds before apparently deciding he’d rather keep Stiles in his sight than leave him “unsupervised” which Stiles found frankly offensive but ultimately true. Left alone he’s almost certain he’d be participating in a lot of activities John would otherwise frown upon. Hence him being brought along even through he apparently ruined the undercover image. Stiles sort of wondered if he was how Old Samuel knew John was full of shit or if Old Samuel really was just that perceptive. To be completely honest John didn’t exactly exude journalist anyway so it was probably the latter.

John considered the Native American a moment before thanking him tersely for his time and turning to leave. Stiles rolled his eyes quickly sidestepping around John to approach the table. “Look, we’re here about the men being killed,” he said somewhat gratified when Old Samuel paused in his shuffling of his cards. “We think you might be able to help us.”

Old Samuel resumed shuffling after a moment of quiet consideration. “I like him,” he said leveling John with a disappointed stare. “He’s not a liar.”

Stiles blinked, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “Oh you have no idea how ironic that is.”

Old Samuel just smiled, gesturing for him and John to take a seat. Stiles slid into the booth by the window leaning his elbows on the table and watching Old Samuel deal out three piles of cards. “Uh, what game are you playing?” he asked. “Blind Man’s Buff? Texas Hold ‘Em?”

Old Samuel just glanced at him. “Go Fish.”

“Go Fish?” Stiles repeated squinting his eyes in disbelief. “We’re playing _Go Fish_?”

“Not you,” Old Samuel said in a tone that indicated he was maybe rethinking his opinion on Stiles already. “My great-grand daughters come by after lunch and the youngest insists.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Well that…sounds like fun.”

“Why do you think I can help you?” Old Samuel asked.

John barely had his mouth open before Old Samuel was holding up a hand. “Not you. Him.”

Stiles shrank a little under John’s withering side-glare but spoke up all the same. “We think you might be able to tell us more about what’s killing the missing men.”

“What?” Old Samuel said. “Don’t you mean who?”

“I think you and I both know I don’t,” Stiles said letting the old man deal out a few more cards before speaking again. “It’s a Deer Woman, right?”

Old Samuel sighed dealing out the last few cards before carefully arranging each stack in the middle of the table. “What does a child know of Deer Women?” he asked.

Stiles blinked pointing at the man. “Okay, one, not a child. Two, we know quite a bit actually.”

“Young one,” Old Samuel said with a smile though his eyes remained serious, “when you’ve been on this Earth as long as I everyone is a child, no matter what hardships you’ve endured.”

Stiles blinked and shook his head slightly mentally brushing the comment aside. “Deer Women,” he said instead. “Legend of the First People. Sometimes associated with fertility and love, sometimes depicted as a dangerous spirit who seduces men and stomps them to death. These men are usually promiscuous, unfaithful, or possess some other trait Deer Women deem, uh, undesirable.”

“Very good,” Old Samuel said. “Some elders call her Taxti Wau. One look in her eyes and a man is consumed with lust, greed, envy. It is said men have been hunting her since time began. That she hides in your blind spot, watches you, leads you to her death. You choose which path you go down with that spirit. She is an omen to tell you to change your ways.

“My grandfather used to tell me tales. He said Taxti Wau is drawn to dances, that she wishes only to dance and will dance all night until the music is done. Sometimes she wears a scarf to cover her face and all those who look upon her disappear never to be seen again.”

“So how do you kill her?” Stiles asked.

Old Samuel seemed surprised by the question. “The Deer Woman is a spirit, a sacred one. She cannot be killed.”

Stiles blinked. “Well that’s helpful,” he said the same time John stated gruffly, “Everything can be killed.”

“There are tales however,” Old Samuel continued as if neither of them had spoken, “that speak of a different kind of Deer Women. Much more violent, these Deer Women are not the same as the spirit of the old legends. They were transformed from human women after being raped or murdered.”

Stiles frowned turning the new information over in his mind. “Okay, and how do we kill them?”

Old Samuel shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Stiles dropped his hands to the table. “What? How do you not know? How does he not know?” he said turning to John for the last part. John just narrowed his eyes so Stiles quickly looked back to the Native American.

“The supernatural is part of life, young one. It is not easily disposed of and nor should it be. It’s part of the cycle of the world.”

“People dying, being stomped to death, is part of the natural cycle of the world?” Stiles asked narrowing his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yes. Everyone dies, child. Even you will one of these days,” Old Samuel said and it was an innocent enough statement. But there was something in the old man’s eyes and the way his gaze flicked down to Stiles’ chest like he could hear Stiles’ heart beating widely and tell how many times he’d come close to death that made his skin crawl and his flight response kick in. He sat back in his chair quickly dropping his gaze from Old Samuel's intense look. 

Stiles nudged John with his foot hoping the hunter couldn’t see how shaken a simple comment had left him though judging by John’s narrowed eyes and easy acquiesce to moving it was obvious enough.

“Thanks for, you know, your time,” Stiles said a little breathlessly getting to his feet after John. The hunter settled a heavy hand on his shoulder giving the old Native American a shrewd once over before guiding Stiles from the diner. Just as Stiles grabbed the cool handle to open the door Old Samuel spoke up again.

“You should stay away from Wyanet, young one. She’s dangerous.”

Stiles paused to look back over his shoulder, one hand on the door as he furrowed his brows and wondered _what_ Old Samuel was—druid, psychic, banshee, God, there were so many possibilities. “She’s not evil,” he said certain, at least, in that statement if nothing else.

Old Samuel nodded setting a stack of cards in front of each seat across from him. “Not all those who are dangerous are evil. You should know that.”

Stiles hesitated, swallowing thickly and waiting to see if the old man would say more, thoughts swirling around his head rapidly at what the man could mean. He couldn’t possibly be talking about Scott and the others, which meant he had to be talking about Stiles. And if he was calling Stiles dangerous then that meant he had to _know,_ and no one was supposed to _know_. When Old Samuel remained silent John reached past Stiles to push the door open then ushered him out. The bell chime shook Stiles free of his thoughts and he blinked at the bright sun shaking John’s hand off his shoulder.

“Stiles,” John said after a moment.

Stiles glanced at him but let his gaze quickly skitter away, looking out over the road and never focusing on one thing for more than a few seconds. There was no way Old Samuel could know. According to Sinéad his static power signature was too low to read; even if Old Samuel _was_ some sort of supernatural there was no way he should have sensed anything. And even if he did sense something in Stiles there was no way he should know what it meant. Stiles was overreacting to the vague musings of an old guy—that was it.

“Stiles,” John repeated and Stiles snapped his gaze back to the hunter. John paused for a moment then, “Are you all right?” 

Stiles laughed, short and breathless, raising a hand to run tiredly over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” he trailed off unsure how to explain, and John was the type of person who liked having explanations.

“You want to tell me why him saying you were going to die eventually set you off?”

“Uh, well, you know, it was practically a death threat,” Stiles said throwing his hands out a little too empathically. “So I felt threatened!”

John’s eyes narrowed further. “Stiles.”

“Okay! It’s just…the way he looked at me, it was like he knew,” Stiles admitted running his hands anxiously through his hair. He scrubbed them through the strands, pulling roughly and scratching at his scalp.

“Knew what?”

Stiles shrugged feeing inexplicably chilled all of the sudden. “About all the close calls I’ve had. And he’s right,” Stiles said meeting John’s gaze tentatively. “Eventually one of them will stick.”

* * *

“Dean, answer your goddamn phone,” John said tersely once again slamming his flip-phone, which, seriously, Stiles didn’t even know they still manufactured those things, shut for the fourth time in half an hour.

Stiles chewed on the end of his pen bouncing his knee absently. “Still not answering?” he said stating the obvious. John shook his head beginning to dig through the weapons bag. He pulled out several knives sliding them into hidden sheaths, one in his coat hanging on the chair, one within the waistband of his jeans, and the last two in his boots. He drew out a handgun, checking the clip before tucking it in his waistband and flipping his shirt down over it.

“Are we going after him?” Stiles asked around the pen cap in his mouth.

“No,” John said zipping the weapons back shut with more force than really necessary and dropping it back to his bed. “I am. You’re going to stay here.”

Stiles pulled a face, yanking the pen from his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” John stated.

Stiles rolled his eyes hard, leaning back in his chair with a huff of disgust. “You know, all you hunters are surprisingly similar. All so fucking bossy. Is there like a school you all attend? Get a degree in ordering people around. Is there some sort of medal for being the bossiest or the most unreasonable?”

“How many hunters do you even know?” John asked flipping through some papers on the table before dialing Dean again. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he shuffled through the pages.

Stiles pursed his lips watching as John’s brows furrowed even further when the line continued to ring, Dean failing once more to pick up. “More than you’d expect probably,” he muttered then said louder, “I’m coming with you.”

John snapped his phone shut. “I said no.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason we talked about earlier today. You don’t listen,” John rumbled shrugging on his coat and heading for the door.

Stiles sighed crossing his arms. “I hate to point out the obvious, John, but I’m not the one who’s missing,” he said more than a little satisfied when John froze before opening the motel door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John snapped.

“You tell me. If Dean’s not answering his phone then he’s either already dead, in a lot of danger, or he’s not listening to you either,” Stiles said.

“And what makes you think I want two idiots who aren’t listening to me?” John asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Well it’s that or you leave my disobedient ass here in the motel room alone and unsupervised,” he said smirking as he could practically see the wheels turning in John’s head.

“Get your ass in the car,” John growled yanking the door open and waiting for Stiles to scramble into his coat. John grabbed his shoulder before he could leave, squeezing almost to the point of painful. “From here on out you do exactly as I say when I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said saluting lazily and breathing a sigh of relief when John finally unclenched his hand from Stiles’ shoulder. He rolled it gingerly as he made his way to the rental car John had kept from earlier.

“What was that bar?” John asked starting the car and pulling out from the parking lot fast enough that Stiles rocked into the door. It was clear where Dean had learned his driving skills.

“Magoos,” he answered. “On Center street.”

John drove them to the bar in record time, pulling crookedly into a space Stiles wasn’t even sure was for parking with a screech of tires and kicking the door open before he’d even fully shut the car off. Stiles exited a lot slower taking in the area around them. The lot was crowded with cars and the low thump of music audible even outside. Stiles scanned the cars quickly looking for the distinctive shape of the Impala.

“There,” he said pointing to the corner of the lot half in shadow where the bumper of the Impala gleamed in the lamplight.

John gestured for him to follow and Stiles fell in step behind him continuing to scan the lot as they crossed. Several groups of people were milling about, one a group of young men smoking while leaning on the wall, a group of mixed men and women stumbling away half supported by one another, and a group of women laughing loudly as they headed in to the bar. Their shrill laughter along with the murmuring voices of the smokers sounded overly loud to his ears, the hair on the back of his neck standing up and the hint of a threat crawling down his spine.

“Car’s empty,” John said angrily as he slammed the Impala’s door shut glancing critically around the parking lot.

“Maybe he’s inside,” Stiles offered. John’s glare indicated what he thought of that suggestion, and Stiles didn’t envy Dean if the other man really was just inside. They followed the group of girls in scanning the relatively much emptier bar, Thursdays apparently being less of a thrill with more expensive alcohol. Stiles let his gaze be drawn to the empty corner booth while John immediately stalked up to the barkeeper leaning close to talk.

Stiles drew in a calming breath feeling out tentatively for any energies like he’d sensed around Wyanet. There was a faint hum to the air leaving it slightly electrified, an after image nothing more. Could be from Wyanet or it could be something else. He drifted over to where John was talking with another customer along the bar catching the end of the conversation.

“Oh yes, young fellow, handsome, with a leather jacket. Saw him leave not two hours ago.”

“Yes,” John said, “but did he leave _with_ someone?”

The other man nodded. “As a matter ‘o fact he did. With that lovely lady who’s in here a lot. Oh what’s her name, some Injun name,” he said drumming his hands on the bar as he struggled to recall. “Winny, Wina, no Wy. Wy something.”

Stiles’ blood ran cold and he could see it on John’s face as well. “Wyanet?”

The man snapped his fingers seemingly oblivious to John’s dismay as the hunter closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. “That’s the one! Wyanet! If you ask me dude’s lucky. Man, that girl is a real looker.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said grimly. “No one asked for your opinion.”

* * *

“John.” Stiles said trying to keep up with the taller man’s quick strides. “John.”

“Get in the car, Stiles, and shut up.”

“John, you’ll find him,” Stiles said. “We’ll find him.”

John pushed out a harsh exhale, visibly calming himself. “Get in the goddamn car.”

“You guys found me. We’ll find him.”

“Kraft was different. We had more time,” John said.

Stiles glanced at his watch noting the time at a little after eight. “We don’t know that we don’t have time now. Most of the victims weren’t found until the next day and time of death for some of them was sometime in the early morning after the nights they were taken. We still have some time.”

John swore slamming the car door he’d slightly opened shut hard enough the whole car shook. “Damnit, Stiles, do you understand what you and Dean did? You tipped her off. You talked to her and you tipped her off. She knew who Dean was. Why else would she take him the day after you two talked to her?”

Stiles shrugged weakly. “Well he is kind of a man-whore and to be honest I don’t think Wyanet like him all that much,” he said quickly dropping that line of thought as John’s glower reached record lows. “Not that it matters. My point stands. By all estimations we have at least five or six hours to find him. And that’s if she even wants to hurt him in the first place.”

“My son has been taken by a woman we were just warned was dangerous in a town being terrorized by Deer Women and you’re going to stand there and say she might not hurt him? Get it through your head, Stiles, that these things we hunt are killers,” John said. “That’s why we hunt them. It doesn't matter what impression she gave you or how pretty she is or what she studies in her time at university. She’s a monster, she took my boy, and I will kill her when I find her.”

Stiles stared at him, a niggling doubt growing at the back of his mind with John’s words. It spread down and around his shoulders constricting him like an unwanted hug. His instincts were usually never wrong, his gut feeling and intuition a reliable judge of character having tipped him off to people like Matt and Kate right from the start. Right now the look John was giving him was sending a shiver of alarm along his spine, a subconscious plea to flee and put as much distance between himself and the hunter as he physically could. For the first time in three weeks with Deaton’s words from earlier and John assertion on monsters echoing in his mind, Stiles felt the oppressive press of threat locking up his motions and choking his heart. He felt like a rabbit caught froze in the sight of a wolf and he wanted to run.

He thought about Old Samuel’s assertion that Wyanet was dangerous, that _he_ was dangerous. There’d been no mention of the hunters, of the danger they posed to people like him and Scott and Kira if they found out and failed to follow their code or even have a code in the first place.

John yanked his door open sliding into his seat and starting the car. Stiles gripped his own door tentatively, part of him still vying for the choice to flee and another part questioning whether or not his intuition was skewed in favor of those that were hunted now that he himself could be counted among the mix. In the wake of the Nogitsune and his tether to the Nemeton he certainly wasn’t an innocent anymore; there was too much blood on his hands for him to be considered anything less than a killer himself.

John revved the engine and Stiles pulled his door open sliding in without another thought. He buckled his belt on autopilot letting silence reign in the vehicle as John sped away from the bar. He was a monster in a car with a hunter, and he was exactly where he needed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always feel free to stop by on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies, I'm back again with yet another chapter!

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

“I’m taking you back to the motel,” John said speeding down a side road. Having one of his sons go missing on a hunt was one of his worst nightmares sitting tucked away in a box in his mind right next to the box containing everything about Mary’s death. Ever since Sam had left for school John had been overly cautious with Dean, keeping his oldest near and fending off the thankfully infrequent questions about solo hunts. With Stiles added into the mix it was easier to say he needed Dean here, but it was clear now the boy would have to stay behind in Sioux Falls. Because he didn’t fucking listen. “And you’ll stay there until I get back.”

“No,” Stiles said. Case in point. Even Sam had never been so goddamn dismissive of anything John told him to do.

John braked a little harder than necessary for a red light glaring at the insubordinate boy in the passenger seat absently bouncing his knee up and down. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no, John, do you want to hear it in Spanish? I’m not going back to the motel room. Don’t be stupid. We have like six hours to find Dean. Two people are gonna search a lot quicker than one,” Stiles reasoned. John flexed his hands around the steering wheel taking a deep calming breath through his nose. Now was not the time for Stiles to insist on ignoring everything John told him to do. “Seriously, if you drop me back off at that motel room I swear to god I will be in the woods within twenty minutes your _orders_ be damned.”

“Not if I handcuff your ass to the radiator,” John growled.

“Oh my god!” Stiles said throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What is it with you guys and wanting to handcuff me to a radiator? Face it, John, you need my help with this.”

“I can’t have you distracting me in the woods,” John said. “I can’t look for Dean and keep an eye on you at the same time.” He couldn’t be worried about keeping track of an untrained boy prone to acting impulsively while trying to find his son.

Stiles scoffed and the sound grated on John’s nerves. “So don’t keep an eye on me,” he said. “Obviously for this whole two people search faster than one thing to work we have to split up.”

John snapped his head to stare at Stiles for a whole second before redirecting his attention to the road to avoid crashing. If Stiles thought John was actually going to let him walk into those woods alone and untrained then he was crazier than John originally gave him credit for. He’d be nothing more than walking talking bait; easy pickings and John wasn’t having that kind of blood on his hands regardless of how much the kid irritated the living hell out of him. “No,” he said. “I’m not sending you into the woods with a creature that tramples men _alone_.”

“I’ll take my phone!” Stiles said as if that was a valid compromise.

John grumbled, “Why? So you can call and say you’re about to die?” Because there was no way he’d get to the kid in time to save him under those circumstances.

Stiles rolled his eyes somehow moving his head and shoulders in a fluid motion that echoed the sentiment. “No, so I can call if I find Dean.”

“And if the Deer Woman finds you first?” John asked gravely.

“John,” Stiles said and the even tone that was probably supposed to sound sincere just sounded condescending. “I know I don’t exactly look it, but I can take care of myself.”

“Then why are you here?” John said.

Stiles tapped his fingers along the door missing the intense look John gave him as he stared out the window. “Maybe I want to take care of others for a change.”

John huffed slowing the car and letting it idle at the intersection. Left would take him back to the motel, right to the edge of the woods where Dean most likely was. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He hated to admit it, wouldn’t admit it aloud, but Stiles was right. “Fine, but if you get trampled you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

Stiles smiled wanly. “Ain’t nothing new there,” he said.

John swore under his breath spinning the wheel to the right and heading to the edge of town. He was going to regret this later for sure.

* * *

“Most of the victims were found in this section of the woods. There’s eight square miles that are the most likely area,” John said tracing his finger along the map he’d spread on the rental’s trunk.

Stiles leaned close, eyeing the map with the same laser focus he gave all his research. It was one of his most redeeming features and one that had made John consider actually keeping him around for a while. Stiles was smart, incredibly so; he could discern a pattern almost faster than John could and he made connections most seasoned hunters would struggle to see in about half the time. He was sharp, quick, and his focus, when pushed, was absolute. His aptitude for research reminded John strongly of Sam, but the way his attention flitted around like a squirrel on speed until given a target resembled Dean’s ability to concentrate when he was four.

“You take these four sectors here,” John instructed, trailing his finger along the lower four squares. “Your section covers the southeast portion, runs along the tree line and in as far as the creek here. You got that?”

Stiles nodded. “Yep.”

“Are you sure? Navigating the woods at night can be difficult, but if you keep yourself oriented with the tree line and the creek you should be able to keep your place,” John said.

“John, I’m sure. This isn’t the first woods I’ve gone gallivanting about in the dead of night,” Stiles said with an odd tone that held a certain amount of amusement in what he was saying.

John filed that away for later contemplation moving around the car to dig the spare handgun out from under the drivers seat. He checked the clip heading back to the trunk where Stiles was running his fingers along the map mouthing words to himself. He slid the clip back in with a loud click thumbing the safety to make sure it was on. Stiles glanced up at him raising a questioning eyebrow before dropping his gaze to the gun in John’s hands. His entire expression shifted, eyes widening almost comically.

“Is that for me?” he asked. Almost squeaked.

“It is,” John said. He held the handgun out frowning a little when Stiles just stared at like a cat presented with a bathtub full of water. “Have you fired a gun before?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “You know, once. Or twice. I probably shouldn’t take that.”

“You want to go into the woods unarmed?” said John.

“Look,” Stiles sighed planting his hands on car. “I’d love to blow you away with my awesome gun slinging skills, but if I possessed the marksmanship to actually hit a moving target with one of those at a distance beyond what would be close enough for the Deer Woman to approach me before I could even pull the trigger then I wouldn’t need you and Dean to teach me, now would I?”

“So you want to go into the woods unarmed?” John repeated.

“Like I said, John, I can take care of myself.”

“Unarmed and alone in the woods?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, John. Unarmed and alone in the woods,” he said laying the dramatics on thick like this was some B-rated horror movie and not a potentially life threatening situation.

John sighed, reassessing his decision to bring Stiles and considering the repercussions of cuffing the kid to his car instead. “What are you going to do if the Deer Woman finds you?”

“Well, see, I try to be more proactive,” Stiles said. “So I was thinking more along the lines of not letting the Deer Woman find me. Don’t worry,” he continued with a grin probably in response to the expression of extreme skepticism John was wearing, “I have extensive practice hiding from things trying to kill me.”

This kid was going to be the death of him. Fuck it. If the moron wanted to die, then so be it. He had his child to find. “Fine. Don’t take the gun. But you are taking this,” he said, unsheathing his largest bowie knife and handing it over handle first.

“Ah,” Stiles said. “Maybe something smaller?”

“Take the damn knife, Stiles.”

“I don’t know if you’ve met me, but I’m pretty clumsy. I’m liable to just stab myself somehow,” Stiles said still eyeing the blade doubtfully.

John sighed, sliding that knife back in its sheath and pulling one from his boot. It was considerably smaller and thinner. Stiles accepted it gingerly, seeming to test the feel of it before settling it in his grip. “Satisfied with that one?”

Stiles glanced at him. “Well I feel considerably less likely to gut myself with it, so yeah.”

“Good. Try to not die,” John said handing the boy a flashlight before folding the map efficiently and tucking it in his pocket.

Stiles huffed out a humorless laugh turning the flashlight around a few times before locating the power button and clicking it on. “I’ll do my best. Should be pretty good at that by now.”

“Remember. Scout your sections then return to the car. Call me if you find Dean. Keep your phone on vibrate and answer if I call.”

Stiles tapped two fingers to his temple, saluting lazily before moving towards the tree line, “Aye aye, captain.”

If he kept it up John was going to kill the kid himself.

* * *

As dark and creepy woods are wont to do, Stiles found himself swallowed by shadows and creaking trees in a matter of minutes, no longer able to hear John moving off to his left or see the road behind him. He blew out a breath, watching the puff of mist dissipate slowly as he considered the woods around him. The nighttime sounds of a forest washed over him, the chirping of crickets, the infrequent hoots of the owls, and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Every once in awhile a stick would crack or the leaves would crunch underfoot some animal. There was a time when sounds like that would have unnerved him, but at this point in his life he knew anything that really wanted to kill him probably wouldn’t be making any noise before he saw it.

Stiles paused in his walking, scanning the trees around him intently. He patted his pocket to reassure himself he still had his phone then considered the knife he held. It wasn’t particularly large, around three or four inches with a slim handle, but Stiles didn’t know what to do with the thing. He didn’t have a sheath for it and wasn’t about the just stick the damn thing in his pocket; the last thing he needed to do was eviscerate himself because he tripped. It also would be pretty useless in an actual confrontation with a Deer Woman, and he’d honestly rather have his hand free rather than clutched around some useless knife John evidently expected him to just carry the whole time.

With a heavy sigh Stiles knelt down loosening his shoelaces and tucking the blade beneath the cross sections before pulling them tight again. Hopefully he wouldn’t manage to chop off a toe or something. He clicked the flashlight off tucking it in his hoodie pocket and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was six days to the next full moon and faint beams of moonlight filtered down between the tree branches. Hands successfully freed he reoriented himself with his back to the road and began working his way in towards the creek.

He made one hundred twenty-three loops from the road to the creek before catching the faint sound of voices murmuring on the wind. There was no question if it was Wyanet or not, the same energy Stiles had sensed outside the bar when he first saw her was wafting through the trees like tendrils of dissipating smoke. He moved at a faster pace, heartbeat kicking up a notch as he jogged through the trees following the thrum of energy and sound of voices.

Just as he crested a low rise he saw them standing in a hazy beam of moonlight in a small clearing. Wyanet was circling Dean slowly, dressed in traditional garb with a scarf over her hair, trailing her hand over his shoulders while the hunter stood still, making no move to run or defend himself.

“Dean!” Stiles yelled breaking into a run and all but skidding down the hill on damp leaves. Dean gave no indication he heard Stiles’ call, seemingly enraptured by the beautiful girl before him. Stiles regained his steady footing, dodged a tree branch, and kept running, leaping gracelessly over a fallen tree to stumble into the clearing.

“Dean,” he said again, panting to try and catch his breath and holding out his hands defensively. “Dean. It’s her. She’s a Deer Woman.”

Dean blinked slowly and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

The Deer Woman turned to face Stiles, smiling widely. She was still pretty; like very, very pretty, with her caramel skin, large brown eyes framed with gorgeous lashes, and shiny brown hair that hung nearly to her waist. But there was an aura of danger around her now unlike before, one that pricked at his skin and had his spark pushing for retreat, and the gleam in her eyes was more predatory than gleeful. “Looks like we have a visitor, Dean. So glad you could join us, Stiles.”

Dean blinked again, eyes clouded with confusion. “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“Tryin’ to save you, buddy, but you gotta focus. Remember why we were here. You, me, and your dad. Dead guys. Come on, look at her feet, man, they’re not _feet_!” Stiles said, speaking fast as the Wyanet circled him slowly, dragging a hand along his shoulders. Her touch made him shiver, made him want to flee. His spark twisted angrily inside, ready to strike but still under his control.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Wyanet purred. “Such a distinctive name. I do love the unique ones. Tell me, Stiles, do you think I’m pretty?” She moved closer, breathing warmly on his ear, “Do you want to come with me?”

Stiles could feel her magic flowing over him, a strange sort of heat wafting in the air around him and pushing inward. It drowned out the sounds of the forest, muffling the world in a stifling haze and then it was brushing against his own magic. His spark recoiled a moment, then lashed out with a cleansing surge of power. The woods flooded back in startling clarity, and Stiles sucked in a deep breath of air.

Wyanet screamed and staggered back like he’d physically hit her. Stiles had to do a double take because no longer was she a stunning Native American. Her hair was gone, leaving her sleek head bald beneath her scarf, her eyes were larger and narrowed in fury, her skin covered in short brown fur, and, Stiles flicked his gaze downward, her feet were decidedly no longer humanoid. They were hooves.

She hissed, eyes glinting dangerously. “How did you do that? What are you?”

“Uh,” Stiles said. He glanced at Dean, who was looking adorably confused and completely unhelpful, then back to Wyanet who seemed to be advancing predatorily now that her song had failed to work. Lacking any better answer or idea, really he should have planned this whole rescue thing a little better before rushing in, Stiles pulled back a fist and punched her in the face.

His hand exploded in pain, which was completely unfair because his father was a sheriff so he knew the right way to punch someone damnit, and he spent about the same amount of time cursing and distracted as the Deer Woman. Then she was flying at him with a snarl, and Stiles was wishing he had his baseball bat.

Wyanet slammed him against a tree knocking the wind from him, and he barely ducked before her own punch connected to his face. He slammed his hand into her stomach, knocking her back with a push of power. She coughed, stumbling back a few steps before charging at him again. He rolled away clumsily kicking out as she tried to stomp on his head and landing a lucky blow that knocked her off balance as he tugged the small blade John had given him from his shoe. She gained the upper hand in the fight fairly quick, though, getting a solid hold on him and twisting his arm behind his back until he cried out in pain and dropped the knife.

He collapsed when she released him, landing heavily and feeling jarred all the way through to his teeth. She kicked him hard in the side and he grunted managing to catch her hoof before she could repeat the attack. He shoved her back and she went down in a flurry of limbs and skirt fabric.

Stiles scrambled backwards trying to put some distance between them and felt his hand land on a decent sized stick. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled hard, freeing the limb from the clinging grass. He leapt forward just as Wyanet lurched to her feet swinging the branch around with all his strength and letting his spark surge forward just the slightest amount.

And it felt like a semi truck slammed into him from behind. Rough hands tore the log from him tossing it away before wrenching him onto his back.

“Dean?” Stiles said in shock. He should have expected this though, really, mind control. Wyanet laughed from somewhere above and Stiles scrambled to try and break free. But like the depressingly many times before that he’d found himself in a similar position, Dean had no problem holding him down even as Stiles tried to trap his arm and roll them. The first punch was unexpected and hurt. It left his head reeling and ears ringing. The second nearly blinded him and Stiles wasn’t too proud to admit he was begging now even as he still desperately tried to twist away or break Dean’s hold.

It wasn’t until Dean clamped his hands around Stiles’ throat that his spark reacted, straining against the edges of his control. He forced it back in a panic, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to recall anything he’d learned in Boston that would help him now without hurting Dean. Eyes flying open, he met Dean’s blank gaze and slammed his palms over Dean’s ears focusing on pushing an earsplitting frequency inward.

Dean howled rolling off Stiles and covering his ears with his own hands. Stiles stumbled to his feet, still trying to catch his breath and snagged the log he’d held earlier. He acted quicker this time, dashing forward and bringing the makeshift bat around in a graceful swing in one fluid movement.

Wyanet’s head snapped sideways on contact and the log shattered, the reverberations vibrating all the way up to his sore shoulder. She collapsed in an unmoving heap and Stiles wasted no time stumbling over to Dean who was just pulling himself up next to a tree staring wide eyed at the Deer Woman. 

Still gasping for air Stiles staggered over to him, twisted his hands in Dean’s shirts and yanked the hunter down. “Oh god, I hope this works,” he muttered before pressing his lips to Dean’s in desperation. It was a desperate act in a desperate time, and Stiles pushed everything he had into just believing that it would work.

Dean was frozen at first, completely unresponsive, but then hands were grabbing at his shoulders and pushing him away and Dean was staring at _him_ wide-eyed but lucid. Still confused but wonderfully cognizant.

“Oh thank god,” Stiles breathed.

“What? Stiles, what are you doing here?” Dean asked, still holding onto Stiles’ shoulders and looking around. “Where the fuck _is_ here?”

“It was a Wyanet. She’s a Deer Woman. Surprise! But she got you and she was gonna trample you probably and I figured it out and your dad and I came to find you and I found you first and, shit, she’s waking up,” Stiles rambled as Wyanet groaned audibly and pushed herself to her knees.

Dean shoved Stiles behind him, and Stiles would have made a face or protested if the action didn’t actually make him feel a little better. He just really hoped Dean wouldn’t succumb to the Deer Woman’s song a second time because that would royally suck.

“Okay,” Dean said keeping himself between Stiles and the slowly rising Deer Woman. “How do we kill her?”

“Uh, Old Samuel wasn’t very helpful on that front,” Stiles admitted. “I’m not sure.”

“Okay,” Dean said again. “So we go with Plan B.”

“What’s that?”

Dean spun around, shoving Stiles to turn and keeping him from falling with firm hands about his waist. “We run!”

* * *

Stiles hated running. Cardio was the first rule to surviving the zombie apocalypse and a basic rule to surviving the supernatural in general, but he’d developed a sort of aversion to the idea of running because every time he ran he seemed to be doing it for his life. And that sucked. Not to mention he really wasn’t in that great of shape anymore even after three weeks of intermittent PT with the Winchesters.

He and Dean were practically falling into each other by the time they stumbled onto a road and began hightailing it back to town; Stiles had been turned around enough that he hadn’t been sure where the car was, and Dean had apparently decided the motel was a suitable rendezvous. Neither one had caught a glimpse of the Deer Woman for a while, but they weren’t taking any chances.

His legs were shaking like a newborn foal as they approached the motel and feeling about as supportive as melting Jell-O. Dean was jogging a steady pace ahead of him now, the bastard, and Stiles didn’t fight it when he fell over in the grass before the parking lot. He swallowed heavily pushing down the urge to puke and stared at the moon far above him as he flopped on his back. The sweat coating him began to cool in the night air and he shivered. He let his eyes slip closed and tried to focus on bringing his heartbeat and breaths down like he would with a panic attack.

“Stiles?” Dean asked. Stiles squinted his eyes to take in the hunter suddenly staring down at him eyebrows furrowed with concern. “You okay?”

“No,” he said, trying to squish in as much sarcasm into the single word as possible. “I’m fucking glorious. Fantastic. Never been better,” he paused to catch his breath, “I feel like I’m dying. Oh god, I am. I’m dying,” another breath, no two breaths because it really did feel like he was dying, “I’m gonna die ‘cause of running. What a,” more air required, “loser.”

Dean just laughed, the fucking bastard. “Come on,” he said reaching down to haul Stiles to his feet.

“Need to call your dad,” Stiles groaned. Dean just nodded hoisting one arm over his shoulders; thankfully not the one Wyanet had done her best to tear off. Stiles, for his part, really did try to keep his feet under himself and help Dean get him to the motel room. But the ground seemed to be moving and his head was swimming in a completely different direction, and he eventually just gave up because the whole thing was making him sick to his stomach.

He groaned again as Dean dropped him onto one of the beds, the impact jostling his sore shoulder and neck. “Be gentle would you,” he said, hissing out a slow breath between clenched teeth.

Immediately Dean was leaning over him again this time scrutinizing him a little closer. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Where?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You mean besides the work over I got from you and your lovely companion and the four mile mad dash back to this dump? Nowhere. Go away. I’m just gonna lay here for a couple years.”

“Work over from the Deer Lady?” Dean repeated blatantly ignoring Stiles request and beginning to work gentle hands over Stiles’ limbs, no doubt doing a first aid check. It would be hot if Stiles didn’t currently feel like bashing him over the head with a frying pan and then curling up in a ball in a dark corner for a few decades.

“Yeah, she did a real number on my shoulder, I think,” Stiles admitted, groaning as Dean prodded in and around his shoulder carefully. “And a couple of other places.”

Dean hummed sympathetically. “Well it’s not dislocated. May have just strained it. You should shower then crash for a bit. You look exhausted. I’ll call Dad.”

Stiles nodded wearily accepting Dean’s hand up and stumbling pathetically towards the bathroom. With any luck a hot shower would go a long way in soothing his aches though he didn’t have much hope.

The warm water, as the motel didn’t offer hot apparently, did help some for the general aches but his shoulder kept on throbbing and his neck progressively got more sore until it kind of hurt to even swallow. Stiles did crash for a bit once he stumbled out of the shower because Dean was right: he was exhausted. Both mentally and physically. And a quick peek at his phone told him it was approaching the time he usually went down for his nightly siesta anyway.

Dean had offered Stiles his bed in deference to the beating Stiles had taken, which was sweet and all, but ultimately pointless. Because Stiles had set the cot up in the corner of the room where he liked to sleep and the idea of sleeping on the bed, which was practically right in the center of the room, with Dean awake was too prickly of a concept to even begin to consider. So he curled himself up on the cot, back against the wall and pillow tucked in front of him like a shield as he did every night and drifted off to what he hoped would be a exhaustion induced temporary coma.

Of course if he suddenly started getting anything he hoped for he’d be concerned for the universe’s stability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)
> 
> And I'll be back again in a few days with the next chapter. Cheers!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is up, y'all! Kind of a filler chapter. Chapter seven to be posted by the end of the week. Cheers!
> 
>  
> 
> **Content Warning: there is a very brief instance of attempted sexual assault in this chapter. More information in the end notes if you need it.**

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

Stiles couldn’t have been asleep very long; he woke abruptly with a gasp not sure why but feeling his heart thundering widely against his ribs. He groaned scrubbing his hands over his face and swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. His eyes snapped open when he felt brittle leaves and cool dirt beneath his toes instead of scratchy carpet.

Stiles stood spinning in a slow circle to take in the trees surrounding him. Okay, so he was either still asleep or the Deer Woman had somehow managed to kidnap him and his cot from a room with a highly trained hunter. Not that Dean had been that great before but, still, Stiles assumed there would have been some sort of struggle. Turning around to find the cot had disappeared kind of confirmed the still asleep theory.

Dreaming about the woods wasn’t a new thing for Stiles; in fact the woods was a fairly prominent feature in most of his dreams. Stiles wandered through the trees slowly keeping an eye out for whatever creepy thing was going to try and eat him this time. He winced with each snap of the twigs beneath his feet and strained his ears to hear anything beyond the noises he was making.

But aside from his light footfalls the woods was utterly quiet, the noises he was making seeming to echo loudly through the silence wrapped around him. He couldn’t see more than fifty feet in any direction, a soft white fog drifting along the forest floor and above.

A sudden loud crack had Stiles jerking around and sliding behind a large tree trunk. He peered fruitlessly into the fog in the direction of the noise, heart hammering harder and palms going clammy. Even recognizing this was a dream didn’t stop the fear response. Enhanced it really since he was at the mercy of his own mind in his dreams, and his mind was a cruel thing to be encountered.

Several more sticks snapped along with the rustle of leaves. Stiles hunkered down farther, making sure he was completely concealed behind the tree. Not that it mattered. If this was the dream he thought it was then the thing about to come out from the fog would have already smelled and heard him.

Sure enough the fog swirled around in wisps and the large form of a wolf emerged, eyes glowing red and fangs exposed in a vicious snarl. Stiles closed his eyes, cursing silently, then pushed away the tree darting off in an all out sprint.

Trunks whipped by him blurred into brown and green splotches of color as he ran. His feet pounded into the ground, uncaring of the sharp stings of pain as sticks and rocks jabbed into his flesh. His heart beat harder, almost painfully, as he drew in harsh breaths.

The wolf growled behind him, paws thundering into the ground in rapid succession sounding closer and closer which each passing second. Stiles could almost feel its hot breath on his heels. He pushed himself faster, skidding down a steep embankment and almost falling on his face.

He barely made it a few more steps before slamming into something hard and knocking the air out of his lungs when he landed. Before he could even figure out what he’d run in to, the wolf was on top of him, paws pressing heavily into his chest and saliva dripping onto his face. He jerked his head away squeezing his eyes closed and trying to prepare himself. For Scott or Derek or Peter or whoever it would be this time.

When he felt fingers digging into his shirt instead of claws he pried his eyes opened, shocked and frightened to see Dean snarling at him, teeth elongating, brow growing more prominent, hair growing in, and eyes glowing bright red. Dean growled again, opened his jaws wide, and then darted down. Stiles flinched away, bracing himself for the pain and surprised find himself being hauled up instead.

The woods fell away as the motel room came rushing back into focus.

“Hey, hey, Stiles, it’s okay. It was just a dream. Just calm down.”

Stiles blinked startled to find himself sitting with Dean right in front of him, hands clasped around his wrists. Stiles sighed, deflating to sag against the wall.

“You okay now?” Dean asked loosening his hold on Stiles’ wrists but not letting go.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said trying to extricate his hands, Dean’s fingers only tightened. Damn, he must have been really flailing again. “Sorry, I didn’t…I’m sorry…can you let go?”

Dean finally let go of his wrists only to drop a heavy hand on his thigh. Stiles froze staring at the offending appendage for a long moment before swallowing and looking back to Dean’s face.

“Uh, wha…what’re you doin’?” Stiles said. Dean smirked inching his hand higher. Stiles shrank back, pulling away. “Seriously, Dean, what are you doing?”

“Oh come on, Stiles, you made the first move,” Dean said shifting closer and crawling between Stiles’ legs.

Stiles leaned back further unnerved when he hit the wall, the cloying sense of wrongness settling into his stomach uncomfortably. “No I didn’t,” he protested. “When did I do that?”

“In the woods,” Dean whispered, breath ghosting over Stiles’ ear. “You kissed me,” Dean mouthed at Stiles’ earlobe and he whined at the contact. It was nice. It also sent spindles of fear skittering down his spine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this…”

“Dean, stop,” Stiles said pushing the other man away with a firm hand to his chest. “I mean it.”

“Really?” Dean asked. He grabbed Stiles’ thighs, fingers digging in like brands and searing hot even through Stiles’ jeans, and yanked the younger man forward roughly before moving to straddle his hips. Dean’s mouth was as hot as his hands, hotter even, and Stiles shoved at Dean’s chest with a muffled yell of objection. Dean ignored him, acting like Stiles wasn’t protesting. One hand pushed up under Stiles’ shirt the other curling behind Stiles’ head, and all the self-defense moves his dad had taught him just a few years ago came flooding back.

In the next instant Stiles had Dean’s left arm trapped, his ankle hooked around Dean’s foot, then he was bridging up, knocking the distracted hunter off balance with his hips, and forcing Dean to roll. They tumbled off the cot together, Stiles tugged along with Dean and falling straight to the ground where his hands dug into decaying leaves and he got a face full of dirt.

“What the hell?” he muttered, spitting out dirt and pieces of a leaf he’d somehow inhaled as he pushed himself up. Trees surrounded him, fog swirling gently in the still air. Silence pressed in on him from all sides, his thundering heart and the sound of blood roaring in his ears all he heard. The icy feeling of déjà vu washed over him, and he stood slowly peering intently into the mist drifting around the dark trees.

A stick snapped sharply behind him, and Stiles spun around. It wasn’t a wolf that appeared through the fog this time, but a tall man in a leather coat wielding the largest knife Stiles had ever seen. He was running before he even made the conscious decision, pushing himself faster and harder than ever because this time he wasn’t even sure what he was running from. And it was human nature to fear the unknown more than the known.

He didn’t make it far; a crushing weight plowing into him from behind, tackling him to the ground and immediately flipping him onto his back and pinning him down.

“John!” Stiles cried. “No, wait, please!”

John locked his hands around Stiles throat. “You’re a monster, Stiles,” he growled. “Think of all the innocent people I’m saving.”

Stiles choked, scrabbling at the man’s arms, fingers slipping over the leather of John’s jacket. He thrashed, trying desperately to throw the larger man off him. But John thwarted every attempt Stiles made to trap his foot, and he successfully locked his elbows, making every effort Stiles made to break his grip futile.

Stiles’ vision darkened, spots dancing through the air as the trees faded away until John was the only thing he could see.

“Don’t you understand?” John said keeping one hand on Stiles’ neck while grasping the knife with the other. “We hunt those that hunt us. We hurt those that hurt others,” he said raising the blade high. The murky light glinted off the edge already dripping with blood.” You’ve hurt enough. Now it’s your turn.”

The knife thrust down and Stiles jerked up, gasping frantically and almost toppling his chair back from the table as his hands flew to his throat searching for a wound.

“Whoa, hey, you okay there, Stiles?” Dean asked dropping a heavy hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles jolted away, actually toppling the chair to the floor with a loud clatter. Dean snatched his hand back, holding both hands outward in the universal sign of surrender. “Whoa, whoa! Sorry! You okay, man?”

Stiles scrambled backwards, slamming his head painfully into the refrigerator and looking around anxiously. When had he fallen asleep at the table? Fuck, was he even awake? He spread his fingers counting urgently. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Stiles?”

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

“Stiles?”

Eleven. Eleven. _Eleven_.

“Stiles?”

Breathing shallowly, Stiles shook his hands out and tried to count again. Eight. _Eight_? Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands, before counting once more. Twelve.

“Stiles?”

Six.

“Hey, calm down.”

How could he keep getting a different number?

Dean grabbed Stiles’ face, forcing him to look the hunter in the eye. “Hey, breathe, Stiles. It was just a dream. You’re okay. Just focus on me, all right? Deep breaths now.”

Stiles sucked in air feeling like it was stabbing tiny needles in his lungs. “I can’t…breathe,” Stiles gasped.

“Yeah, you can,” Dean said pushing Stiles’ head down between his knees and keeping a steadying hand on the back of his neck. Dean kneaded the tense muscles there gently keeping up a continual litany of reassuring phrases until Stiles felt like the very air was no longer strangling him.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, feeling boneless and exhausted. He realized he was holding onto Dean’s wrist and quickly let go, crossing his arms over his knees instead and leaning his forehead against them. “That…that hasn’t happened in a while.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, continuing to knead his fingers into Stiles’ neck. A little harder than was comfortable now. Stiles rolled his shoulders, trying to subtly dislodge Dean’s hand.

“Well, thanks,” he muttered, swiping his sleeve over his eyes. “You know, for calming me down.”

“No problem. It’s the least I could do,” Dean said, halting his rubbing and instead curling his fingers over Stiles’ neck, almost like he was holding Stiles’ head down. Stiles froze, trying to lift his head and swallowing hard when Dean’s hand tightened. “After all, can’t have _you_ panicking can we?”

* * *

 Stiles jerked up from the cot in a flurry of pillows and blankets screaming. He heard Dean exclaim something off too his right, but couldn't tell what it was exactly over the pounding of his heart. He moved to get off the cot somehow managing to tangle himself up enough in the sheets that he flopped to the floor like a fish out of water. The fall jarred his shoulder but Stiles was too busy trying to free his hands to care.

He heard a chair slide across the floor and then heavy hands were pressing down on his shoulders. Stiles pulled away, finally managing to free his hands from the twisted sheets and scrambling backwards and kicking his feet.

“Stiles! What are you—hey! Calm down!”

As soon as his feet were free Stiles was fleeing to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him and twisting the lock with shaking hands before collapsing before it and quickly counting his fingers. Once. Twice. And a third time.

Ten. Ten each time.

Stiles heaved a sigh of relief, dropping his head against the door with a hollow thud and pressing his hands to the cool wood to try and ease the tremors. He finally registered Dean’s yelling and pounding on the door, feeling the vibrations from each hit travel through the wood and down to his hands and head.

“Stiles? Stiles, open the door. Open the door, okay? Just…Stiles, just open the door or I swear to god I will pick this lock!”

Stiles squeezed his eyes closed trying to draw in a deep breath even as his lungs seized painfully. “I can’t stay there,” he said hating the shaky tone to his voice but unable to not say anything. “I can’t.”

Dean paused mid-sentence and mid-door pounding. Stiles could just hear him moving over his loud breaths and felt the door shift slightly as Dean pressed against it. “Can’t stay where, Stiles?”

“I can’t stay there,” Stiles repeated. “I want to stay with you. I _have_ to stay with you. Do you understand that?”

“Hey, hey, Stiles, you are with me, okay? You’re with me, right now, and you aren’t going anywhere, okay? I promise. So just, just take deep breaths and open the door for me, okay?” Dean said sounding a little desperate.

“No,” Stiles said frustrated Dean didn’t seem to be getting it. “John’s going to leave me in South Dakota. I know he is.” He felt the door move as Dean shifted. “But I can’t stay there. I have to stay with you.”

“Stiles,” Dean sighed heavily and Stiles could picture him shaking his head, “just open the door.”

“No,” Stiles said. “Not until you say I can stay.”

“Stiles, I don't make that call. My dad does,” Dean said. “Open the door.”

“No.”

Dean sighed again and Stiles heard him move away. A few seconds later the doorknob was moving, the soft clicks of a lock pick at work, and Stiles scrambled away from the door just before Dean pushed it open. He didn’t come in the bathroom, holding his hands up in surrender before replacing the lock picks back in his case and flipping it closed. Stiles didn’t move from where he’d pressed himself between the toilet and sink.

“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” Dean said. “It’s probably filthy.”

“So?” Stiles replied. It wasn’t like he really cared about that at the moment. And he was pretty filthy himself to begin with so it didn’t really matter.

“Okay,” Dean muttered under his breath, brushing a hand over his hair and looking about a thousand times more uncomfortable than Stiles felt. “You all right?” he asked finally. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the cot. Stiles could see the blankets and sheets twisted in a pile on the floor. “You didn’t seem to sleep very well.”

“I haven’t had one that bad in a while,” Stiles admitted. He’d stopped screaming himself awake after a few weeks in Boston. The nightmares hadn’t stopped but they had lessened, and he’d learned to deal with them.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You tellin’ me all of that,” he said waving his hand in the direction of the bed, “is normal for you?”

Stiles shrugged. “Kind of. Used to be worse actually.”

Dean stared at him then, “No wonder you don’t sleep much.”

Stiles snorted, pulling his knees up and basically making himself as small as possible. Dean rubbed a hand along his mouth and moved to lean against the doorjamb. Stiles was just glad the hunter didn’t ask him to leave the bathroom yet and was still keeping his distance.

“Why are you so adamant about staying with me and my dad?” Dean asked. “I mean you’re twenty and hell bent on getting as deep into this as you possibly can. Why is that?”

Stiles shifted not meeting the hunter’s gaze. “I already told you.”

“No,” Dean said. “You told us you needed to learn how to hunt and that you thought my dad was the best person to teach you. You didn’t tell us _why_.”

Stiles blew out a long breath letting his head fall back against the wall and interlacing his fingers loosely around his knees. Logically he’d known the hunters would, for lack of a better word, pry into his back-story eventually. Hell, he was surprised they both let it go almost three weeks before really asking any direct questions after they left Philadelphia. But he still wasn’t sure how to answer them. Wasn’t sure he was ready to answer them. “Why do you hunt, Dean?” he asked instead.

Dean shrugged, a smooth roll of his shoulders, and looked away, focusing instead on his nails as he picked at his cuticles. “Because a demon killed my mom when I was four. Pinned her to the ceiling of my brother’s nursery and burned our house down around us,” he said and Stiles’ heart ached at the underlying tone of loss. Old loss, sure, but still painful. Dean brought his gaze back to Stiles, pinning him with an intense look. “Dad’s been looking for the son of a bitch ever since and along the way we hunt. Saving people, hunting things, that’s our job. It’s my job.”

Stiles nodded, absorbing the information. He’d known Dean’s mother had died in a fire. But he hadn’t known about the demon and his stomach clenched at the knowledge of more pain and suffering dealt from the hands of one of those vile creatures. Dean watched him mutely, expectantly. Quid pro quo. Dean had shared something personal with Stiles, now it was his turn.

“My mom’s dead too. She died when I was eleven,” he offered after a beat. That was a story he could tell, at least some of it. Dean’s gaze softened a bit as he spoke, a shared understanding of that kind of loss. “Not a demon or anything supernatural. She just got sick.” Stiles cleared his throat, tapping his fingers along his leg. Not to count, just to move. “A brain disease. She started to forget words at first, I thought it was funny at the time, the way she started calling everything a thingy or a whatchamacallit or would loose her train of thought mid-sentence like I did sometimes.” He chuckled lightly brushing a hand over his face as he tried to collect his whirling thoughts.

Dean said nothing, remaining silent in the doorway and back to picking at his nails. He had a pocketknife out now, seemingly cleaning out under his nails with it. Stiles thought maybe he just wanted to look busy, to not put too much weight on their current conversation. Or maybe he really did have a bunch of dirt under his nails.

“Then her moods changed. First she got really sad. She cried all the time and wouldn’t get out of bed. Screamed at me too sometimes. She’d get mad over the stupidest things,” he said shaking his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really talked about this with anyone. Scott was a good listener but there was so much about what he and his dad went through with his mom that he never wanted Scott to know. Dean stopped his motions with the knife, the only indication he was actively listening. “One time I was trying to help her put the groceries away, but she’d changed where everything went and so I put a jar of pickles in the wrong cupboard. When she saw me put them there she just, she freaked out. Kept yelling that I was going to get everyone killed because the pickles went in the cupboard with the green food and since I put them in the cupboard with the red food the world was going to end. She just kept screaming and screaming and my dad was trying to calm her down, but it wasn’t working and she just kept screaming,” Stiles said squeezing his eyes shut and knocking his head back into the wall to punctuate the last few words.

He paused again to collect himself before continuing. “It was shortly after that she was hospitalized. And once she was there she declined fast. She forgot who I was, forgot my dad too in the end but at first it was just me. Sometimes she’d be really paranoid. Sometimes we went to visit and she’d look at me and I could tell she knew she was supposed to know me. Other times she’d cry as soon as I walked through the door. She’d look at my dad and say, ‘John, why can’t you see? Why can’t you see he’s tryin’ to kill me?’ Or, ‘Mister, I don’t know who that is. Please don’t let him in here. Please, I don’t like strangers.’ It got to the point that I was scared to visit my own mom. And then she died,” he finished scrubbing a hand roughly across his eyes and dropping his gaze determinedly to the dirty linoleum floor.

“I can’t imagine anything like that,” Dean said once Stiles had let the silence stretch long enough. He flicked the pocketknife shut, sliding it back in his pocket and shifting to face Stiles rather than sit adjacent. “But it has nothing to do with you wanting to hunt does it?”

Stiles sniffed lightly curling back around his knees like he could physically block the words from reaching him and therefore not participate in the conversation anymore. “I wouldn’t say that. It definitely factors in there somewhere,” he said. Like the fact that he was one parent down and he would be damned if he lost them both. Dean arched a skeptical eyebrow. “But maybe not the driving reason, no.”

“That stuff you mentioned before then,” Dean said, “about people getting hurt to protect you. That have anything to do with you hunting?”

Stiles sighed, pushing the puff of air out of his lungs quickly and winding his fingers in the fabric of his pants. “That. Yeah. That one is probably, ah, a bit more influential.”

“And you aren’t going to tell me about that, are you?”

Stiles shook his head. “Not right now, no.”

“But you will?” Dean pushed.

Stiles regarded him closely a long moment. When they’d first met, Stiles had dismissed him as dispensable, focusing in on John and letting Dean fall by the wayside, especially with Dean’s frigid reception of him. But now Dean was possibly the best asset he had here with John set on dropping Stiles off with Bobby Singer. Getting Dean on his side to stay would be the next best thing to an honest to god promise from John. Plus, Stiles was starting to _like_ the guy even if he’d probably demand Stiles’ head if he knew anything about what Stiles actually was. He’d spent months in the company of cryptic druids and pushy werewolves. Having someone care without any potentially shady motives was refreshing.

“If I stay,” Stiles said. “If I stay, I’ll tell you.”

Dean huffed, dragging his hands over his face and mumbling something about Stiles being worse than his brother as he pushed himself to his feet. “Come on,” he said holding out a hand to help Stiles up. “You gotta get outta that corner, I tell ya, you’re gonna get herpes.”

Stiles rolled his eyes but accepted the hunter’s hand up. “That’d be the least of my problems,” he muttered. “Did you hear from John yet?”

Dean shook his head, moving aside to let Stiles leave the bathroom first. “No, left him a message, but you were only out for maybe an hour before your, um…”

“Minor freak out,” Stiles supplied picking up the tangled mess of sheets and blankets from the floor and tossing them back on the bed.

“That was minor?” Dean asked disbelievingly.

Stiles pursed his lips then shrugged. “Yeah. I have a scale. There’s mild, minor, moderate, major, and something a little beyond that.”

“What the hell happens when you have a major freak out?”

Stiles laughed though it really wasn’t all that funny. “More panic. Sometimes screaming. Sometimes crying. Actually lots of screaming and lots of crying. Minor maiming. Fun stuff.”

Dean whistled lowly. “And you’ve always had those?” he asked.

“Nah,” Stiles replied shaking his head. He glanced at Dean, noting the open curiosity on his face. “They started when my mom died. Were really bad for a couple months then tapered off. By the time I was in high school the nightmares and panic attacks were mostly gone. But certain recent events have kind of brought them back, and they get worse when I’m stressed or anxious,” he explained.

“Those recent events being whatever it is you won’t talk about?”

“Bingo,” Stiles said snapping his fingers in Dean’s direction as he filled a glass with water because he was just now realizing it tasted like something died in his mouth. Gross.

Dean opened his mouth, like he was about to ask another question, but was cut off by the sudden playing of some obnoxious sounding rock song. Dean snatched his cell of the table before the ringtone could begin again. “Dad?” he said giving Stiles a slight nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Yeah, we’re both fine.” He paused for a moment listening to John on the other end. Watching Dean’s face move through a myriad of emotions Stiles found himself wishing for werewolf hearing so he could tell what the other hunter was saying. “Seriously? Yeah, okay. We’re headed to you,” Dean said ending the call and immediately moving to gather up the weapons bag.

Stiles took a sip of his water tapping his fingers along the glass. “Uh, so, what’s up?"

“He’s got Wyanet,” Dean said. “He’s at the abandoned barn.”

“Cool,” Stiles said setting his cup aside. “Wait no, how’d he catch her? Are we sure he’s not under the influence here? Because I gotta say one beating a day is enough for me.”

“I don't think he’d have called us if he was under her song, Stiles,” Dean pointed out shrugging on his coat. “That’d be a pretty stupid thing for her to do.”

“Unless it’s a trap,” Stiles argued moving to grab his own coat and pull his shoes on.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Dean said.

Stiles scoffed. “You’ll deal with it," he muttered then continued louder, "I am not kissing your dad, okay? You? Sure. John? No. Absolutely not. I have an age limit for that sort of thing and people older than _my_ dad are definitely beyond it.”

Dean yanked the door open pointing at Stiles reproachfully. “Huh-uh, no, we’re not talking about that, okay? Never happened.”

“You sure?” Stiles said grinning. “Because I felt a connection back there. Like a real spark between us. I mean I was just saving your life. It’s no big deal.”

Dean scowled rolling his eyes and shoving Stiles through the door. “Shuddup and get in the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW:** the instance of attempted sexual assault occurs in one of Stiles' dreams between himself and Dean. Dean in the dream makes advances citing the kiss in the woods as an invitation. Stiles protests this but Dean continues. At the time Stiles is not sure he is dreaming. The scene is very brief and progresses no further than unwanted kissing and a hand up Stiles' shirt.  
>  It begins with the the line _The woods fell away as the motel room came rushing back into focus._ and concludes with _“What the hell?” he muttered._ and is the second of several dream sequences. 
> 
> As always thanks for reading! 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end! Unfortunately, chapter eight is still in its skeleton stage of being written, but I will do my best to have it up within the next week. Until then enjoy chapter seven!

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

“What happened to your face?”

Stiles scowled the expression eliciting a twinge around his left eye. He could feel the heat in the swelling there and the beginnings of more bruising along his cheekbone. It was like Gerard all over again. Yippee. “You know _hello_ is usually the standard greeting, but in your case I’d also accept _hey glad to see you didn’t fucking die_ or maybe _thank you for saving my firstborn from being trampled_ ,” Stiles said.

John glowered at him before inclining his head toward Wyanet. “She do that?” the older hunter asked.

The Deer Woman was bound to an old chair, hands tied behind her back, a loop over her chest, and two more around her ankles. A strip of cloth was tied over her eyes. She raised her head as John spoke, grinning through a split lip.

Stiles glanced from Wyanet to Dean. “It was more of a team effort. How’d you catch her?”

“Found her running through the woods without Dean. Figured he was already dead or you’d found him first,” John said. There was a look of relief in his eyes as he covertly assessed Dean with his gaze before giving Stiles a slight nod.  

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t call,” Stiles said scratching the back of his head and twisting to share a look with Dean. “I was a bit preoccupied by running for my life. Again.”

John ignored Stiles standing from where he’d been sitting on an old wooden crate to point his gun at Wyanet. “We still don’t know how to kill her, but I’ve ruled out method one. And as long as that blindfold stays on and we don’t look her in the eye we should be fine from her song”

Stiles stomach rolled as Wyanet seemingly glared at John through the blindfold, hair shifting just enough as she followed John’s movements for Stiles to see the neat cluster of bullet holes in her shirt just over her heart.

“So on to method two?” Dean asked, dropping the weapons bag with a clatter and kneeling to dig through it. He stood a moment later brandishing a machete with a grin.

Wyanet stilled, facing straight ahead and it occurred to Stiles she had no idea what method two was or what Dean was holding. “Decapitation,” he breathed uncertain why it was so important that she knew what was coming. It may have been kinder to not tell her, but the charged air, almost like static electricity, that was clustered in the barn was throwing him off kilter. Dean glanced at him, nodding with an approving look like he was proud Stiles remembered.

Wyanet scowled. “Oh come on, now that’s just barbaric. You’re not actually going to cut off my head, are you?”

“Are you afraid it might take?” Dean asked.

“Sweetheart, I know it won’t,” she said tilting her head to the side coyly.

Dean shrugged. “Well, no time like the present to test the theory.” Then he was stepping forward without another word and swinging the machete with a faint whistle.

Stiles jerked himself around at the last second, heart hammering so loud he almost missed the squelch of the blade through flesh and the thud of her head hitting the ground. His lungs seized, breath catching for a moment before he reminded himself to breathe steadily. A cold sweat broke out over his skin as Dean made a noise of contemplation followed by one of disgust.

When he forced himself to turn back John was staring at him critically while Dean methodically cleaned the blade with a scrap of cloth. Stiles swallowed looking past the hunters to Wyanet. Her body was slumped in the chair, her front drenched with blood that was still oozing from her severed neck. He gagged, coughing to cover it, and quickly averting his gaze while pressing a hand to his mouth.

“That’s right,” Dean said pointing the machete at him. “You’re squeamish.” He sounded almost gleeful.

“You chopped off her _head_ ,” Stiles said not letting himself even glance at the Deer Woman’s head sitting so innocuously on the floor of the barn in an ever growing crimson puddle.

“Yeah,” Dean said nudging Wyanet’s leg with his boot. “Seems to be taking.” He glanced at John. “How long should we wait?”

“We should burn the body just to be sure,” John said. “Get the stuff from the car. Stiles, I want to talk to you.”

Dean nodded, dropping the machete back in the bag before exiting the barn. Stiles followed Dean to the door sucking in a deep breath of fresh air. John came up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder and startling him. Stiles jerked away instinctively, and John let him draw back.

“That bothered you,” John said, nodding his head towards Wyanet’s body.

“Dean chopped off her head,” Stiles repeated. “That’s, like, material for at least a month’s worth of nightmares right there.”

“You’re going to have to do a lot worse than chop off some heads to be a hunter, Stiles,” said John. “This isn’t a job for the weak spirited.”

Stiles turned to face him. “You think I’m not cut out to be a hunter because I don’t like that Dean chopped off a girl’s head? Seriously? You’ve no _idea_ the things I’ve had to do,” he spat.

“You’re right. And I invite you to share those with me sometime,” John said and it was the most sincere Stiles had ever heard the man sound, especially towards him. “But what Dean just did to that thing in there? That’s just the beginning. It all goes downhill from here if you want to be in the field with us.”

“Don’t go seeing this as an excuse to leave me behind in South Dakota, John,” Stiles said grimly. “I will chop off the heads of everything I need to, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No,” John said after a moment. “I suppose not.”

Stiles rolled his eyes scrubbing his hands over his face trying to settle the shaky feeling that had spread through his limbs. He resolutely pushed away all thoughts of what John or Dean would do to him if they found out, repeating instead the steady mantra he’d kept up since first deciding to seek them out. They didn’t know; they wouldn’t find out. It was that simple.

Unbidden he glanced back through the crack in the doors toward Wyanet. The bottom of his stomach dropped out when she smirked at him and winked.

“John,” he said faintly feeling a bit like he’d fallen into the twilight zone. “Her head is back.”

John swore, shoving Stiles aside as he rushed back in. He headed straight for the discarded blindfold careful to not look at Wyanet as he retrieved it.

“Please,” she said with a small sigh, “do not tie that thing around my head again.”

“So you can sway one of us?” John asked. “I don’t think so.”

Wyanet sighed again, put upon and drawn out, before looking Stiles in the eye. “It takes more than a look in my eyes, genius. Or you’d already be dead.”

John paused, blindfold pinched between his fingers, as he glanced up at Stiles. “So what’s it take?”

“Why would I tell you?” the Deer Woman scoffed. “If your juvenile brain can’t figure it out I’m not going to connect the dots for you.”

“Touch,” Stiles said remembering the feel of her fingers along his shoulder, the faint caress to his cheek. “You have to touch us and look us in the eye.”

Wyanet smiled indulgently. “Well, look at who’s really the brains of the operation. You know most hunters don’t figure that out based on one experience. But you’re not most hunters, are you? Tell me, just how did you resist my song, little one?” she asked cocking her head to the side like Stiles was an intricately interesting puzzle.

“Through sheer force of will power,” Stiles said adamantly refusing to look at John.

Wyanet smiled and chuckled shaking her head a little. “No one’s will power is stronger than mine.”

“I’m a hundred thirty five pounds of pale skin and fragile bone on a good day,” Stiles said frankly. “Will power is literally my only defense. That and I’m told I can be quite obstinate so don’t go feeling too slighted there.” 

He heard footsteps come up behind him and Dean give a huff of displeasure. “Didn’t stick I see. Shame. What happened to the blind fold?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wyanet said mock regretfully. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I did warn you.”

“So you did,” Dean said. He glanced briefly at his father before stepping forward and beginning to douse Wyanet in gasoline.

She sputtered indignantly, spitting some out of her mouth as it poured down her face and soaked into her clothes. The smell hit Stiles hard, searing through his nose and making his palms sweat as his heart stuttered. There was barely a moment for Stiles to adjust to the sharp odor before John was striking a match, a brilliant flare of yellow in Stiles’ peripheral vision, and tossing it at Wyanet who went up in flame like a beacon. Stiles braced himself for cries of agony, but she didn’t scream.

She laughed.

Stiles wasn’t sure what was creepier.

“Well fuck,” Dean said. John seemed to echo the sentiment. Stiles found himself torn between relief that she didn’t seem to be burning and worry about what she might say to John and Dean after she stopped being aflame because this was method three. And it wasn’t working.

The gasoline, or at least that’s what Stiles surmised was burning because it certainly wasn’t Wyanet or even her clothing, burned up fairly quick. In minutes she sat untouched bound to a chair and surrounded by three men: two grimly puzzled and one with a quickly solidifying suspicion.

“Stiles,” John said finally. “Watch her. Dean, come with me.”

Stiles nodded moving aside as the two hunters left the barn coming to a halt out of earshot but still in Stiles’ line of sight through the half open doors. Wyanet smirked at him knowledgeably when he looked back to her. “Will power,” she said raising a skeptical brow. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Stiles shrugged. “It’s more true than it sounds.”  

“You’re something,” Wyanet said, eyes narrowed and calculating. “And the hunters have no idea. Do they?”

“Look,” Stiles said leaning in and speaking fast. “I know that you know that I know you _know._ But they don’t know. Anything. So, I have a little proposition for you. You help me and I help you, sound good?”

Wyanet chuckled cocking her head to the side. “And how are you going to help me?”

“How would you like to live?” Stiles asked.

“Oh, honey, they can’t kill me.”

Stiles pursed his lips, jerking his head in a sharp nod. “Fair enough. I’ll rephrase. How would you like to continue living a free life? Because maybe you can’t die but those dudes are persistent. They’ll figure something out to lock you down so tight you won’t see another living soul for centuries. Maybe more. First hunt I was on with them involved locking a spirit in a circle of salt in sewer and basically encasing him in concrete. I guarantee they’ll figure out something special just for you.”

Wyanet hesitated, flicking her gaze from Stiles to the hunters before licking her lips. “And what are you going to tell them that will make them reconsider?”

“How about the fact that you aren’t the one killing people?” Stiles said. Wyanet looked at him sharply, mouth falling open in a small display of surprise. Stiles nodded, first suspicion confirmed. “Yeah, didn’t think I figured that out yet, did you?” he continued. “Well, I did. The only thing I can’t quite figure out is who is killing people then. I assume you being you means there are other Deer Women, ones who actually are trampling men, but why and who and how? See, some lore says _you_ transformed them, but Old Samuel talked about them being brought back after death, so I’m a little confused. Are they AWOL fledglings of yours or something else?”

Wyanet sighed, closing her eyes in apparent resignation. “They’re not mine,” she admitted. And there was his second suspicion confirmed.

“So they’re women who were raped or murdered,” Stiles concluded. He paused mulling the information over. “Are they why you’re here?”

Wyanet scoffed and rolled her eyes shaking her shoulders a bit as if to easy some tension. “Of course not. Why do I care if some men and the occasional woman get trampled? You humans mean nothing to me. You’re like ants.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you before,” she said easily tossing her head to get some hair out of her face. “I’m working on my degree.”

“Wait, what, seriously?” Stiles asked. “I thought that was all, like, a lie?”

Wyanet scowled. “I do actually have to live in this world, Stiles. It gets a little mind numbing just dancing for thousands of years.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Thousands of…wow. You’re…looking good for a, a millennial.”

Wyanet shook her head with a small huff. “Okay, so you’ll keep them from locking me away in exchange for me not telling them you’re, what exactly? Some magical creature?”

“Yes,” Stiles said.

“You’re not going to tell me what you are?” she asked. “Have to admit my curiosity is piqued. It’s not every day I encounter someone who can not only resist my song but outright reject it. I mean, the last time that happed was—” She cut herself off abruptly snapping her gaze to Stiles intensely enough that he took a step back. She blinked, as if seeing him in a whole new light and shook her head slowly. “My, my, my, you are a unique one.”

Stiles eased back further, casting a nervous glance to the hunters still talking just outside the doors. Wyanet followed his gaze smirking as she relaxed in her bindings. “Really?” she asked caustically. “A spark running with hunters? I thought you guys were supposed to be smart?”

“You’d be surprised at the things I run with,” Stiles said wanting the conversation finished. “So we have a deal?”

Wyanet didn’t answer furrowing her brows and staring up at him like she’d just solved a particularly complex puzzle. Stiles fought the urge to fidget, holding his ground even as the stare raised the fine hairs on his neck. “Oh,” she said softly. “I know you.”

“Pretty sure you don’t,” Stiles said. “I just have one of those cookie-cutter faces. Look like a lot of people. You though, I’d remember meeting you. So no, no you don’t.”

“They call you Little Red,” Wyanet said ignoring him.

Stiles blinked, the name falling flat and empty of meaning to him. “What now? No. No they really don’t. I don’t even know who they is, but I’m pretty sure no one calls me that.”

“Yes. You’re The Boy Who Runs With Wolves. The _human_ ,” she laughed shaking her head and looking a little awed, “They have no idea what you really are, do they?”

“No,” Stiles said bitingly. “They don’t and you don’t. You don’t know anything.”

“Stiles, you and your little puppy friends relit a beacon,” Wyanet said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t really think that sort of thing went unnoticed, did you? And that’s not even mentioning how you all but destroyed an ancient hunting family _and_ an alpha pack. _The_ Alpha Pack with the demon wolf himself.”

“Okay, so what if I am this…boy who runs with wolves?” Stiles said. “What’s it to you?”

Wyanet shrugged the best she could bound to a chair. “Nothing. But a lot of people think you’re dead, you know? I mean, surviving a Nogitsune possession. Now there’s a feat.”

“Is there a point in all of this?”

“It’d be nice to be owed a favor by someone as…resourcefully resilient as yourself,” Wyanet said.

Stiles scoffed. “You want me to owe _you_ a favor? I’m saving your ass!”

“Oh, honey,” Wyanet said looking back out toward the hunters. “Somehow I think you need my help right now more than I need yours.”

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles snapped stalking away.

“Just think on it, Stiles,” Wyanet called. “Because I could always tell those lovely hunters just what they’ve been traveling with.”

* * *

“Stiles?” Dean asked concerned when the other boy came barreling out of the barn with a serious expression on his face. Dad shifted next to him, no doubt ready to reprimand Stiles for not listening. Again.

“We can’t kill her,” Stiles said.

That. Well, that stopped any forthcoming lecture before it even started.

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Dad growled.

Stiles shrugged one shoulder. “I mean we can’t kill her. Literally. She can’t be killed. I also mean we _shouldn’t_ kill her, even if we could.”

Seeing Dad bristle like he was getting ready to drill Stiles into the next century, Dean laid a hand on the man’s shoulder speaking quickly. “Stiles, you’re doing that thing again where you go from point A to point D without explaining B or C. What do you mean she can’t be killed?”

“She’s the Deer Woman.”

Dean glanced at his father before nodding. “Yeah, we know.”

“No,” Stiles said stressing the word and waving his hands for emphasis. “She’s not _a_ Deer Woman. She’s _the_ Deer Woman. As in the original sacred spirit. Taxti Wau, the one and only _actual_ Deer Woman.”

“How do you know?” Dad said.

Stiles jerked his thumb back to where Wyanet was sitting. “Uh, she’s clearly not dead even after your scarily effective methods and, come on, she’s wearing a scarf for God’s sake. It couldn’t be clearer!”

“Okay,” Dean said interrupting again because Dad kind of looked like he wanted to test their scarily effective methods on Stiles. “What do you mean we shouldn't kill her?”

Stiles deflated a little, shoulders dropping and surprisingly unperturbed by Dad’s death glare. Dean was impressed a little; he remembered what it was like to receive that look. “She’s not the one killing people,” Stiles said.

Dad crossed his arms furrowing his eyebrows. “And how did you reach that unreasonable conclusion?”

Dean seconded that question wholeheartedly. “I don’t know if you remember, Stiles, but she lured me out into the woods and was pretty much set on trampling me. Oh, and she beat the shit out of you.”

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “Because you’re hunters. We’re hunters. Dean, you and I approached her in a bar and practically said we were in town to kill her. I don’t know about you, but when someone implies they want me dead I don't exactly react kindly.”

“If she wasn’t killing people then she didn’t have anything to worry about,” Dad said. “We wouldn’t have hurt her.”

Stiles barked out a laugh before quickly smothering it down. “You’re kidding right? Do you two have any idea what sort of reputation hunters have? There’s no way she was going to sit back and let you two decide there was a reason to kill her. Not when Dean and I already talked to her.”

“Assuming you’re correct about this,” Dad said, “and that’s a big assumption. Then who is killing people?”

“You remember what Old Samuel said,” Stiles asked. “Deer Women can be created from women who were raped or murdered.”

Dean frowned considering the possibility. Stiles wasn’t exactly wrong with anything he said, though Dean had no idea who Old Samuel even was or why they were trusting his word. It took a moment to place the name as the person Wyanet had assumed he and Stiles had talked to.

“But you said there was no origin death or event,” Dad pointed out.

Stiles nodded. “Not as far back as the town’s history went. But this is settled Native land, John. I mean, it dates back to before the 1850s. Those women could be well over a century old, and even if they aren’t,” he shrugged helplessly, “if those women were Native Americans there might not be any record of their rape or murder.”

“Jesus,” Dad said, dragging a hand over his face roughly. “Okay. Dean and I will look into finding the other Deer Women. Until then, she stays with us,” he said jabbing his finger towards Wyanet. “And you,” he said pointing at Stiles, “ will stay with her.”

* * *

“So what do you really want?”

Stiles had been confined back to the motel room once more. Under the guise of babysitting this time rather than research, but still it almost felt like he was under watch as much as Wyanet was. He wouldn’t complain though; each moment Wyanet was not around the Winchesters was a moment she couldn't blab her mouth to them about Stiles.

He’d spent the better part of the ride back to the motel sitting stock still and digging his fingernails into his palms as Wyanet smiled at Dean in the front seat and kept flicking her gaze between him and the hunters. He couldn’t bring himself to even pretend to be annoyed when John told him to stay in the motel room and not let Wyanet out of his sight. With the hunters gone for now Stiles had relaxed somewhat, enough to start wondering why someone like Wyanet would need or want a favor from him. The only sensible conclusion he’d reached was that Wyanet already had something in mind for his favor and likely wanted him to agree to do it before knowing what _it_ even was.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wyanet asked.

Stiles crossed his arms leaning against the wall. “Someone of your supernatural standing doesn’t need owed a vague favor by someone like me. You already have something you want and for some reason you need me, or someone like me, to get it for you.”

“You’re overly suspicious, Stiles.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Why do you think I’m still alive?”

“Okay, fine. You’re right. There’s a box on the reservation,” Wyanet said sighing airily.

Stiles blinked. “You want a _box_?”

Wyanet leveled him with an unimpressed look. “Clearly I want what’s in the box.”

“Okay, you know what? Fine. I don’t even want to know,” said Stiles waving his hands as if to brush the subject away. What was in the box wasn’t really a concern at the present. Not enough to press her on when he was pretty sure she wouldn’t elaborate. Of course, that meant whatever was in the box probably wasn’t something he should retrieve for her. “Why do you need me to get it?”

“Well, that should be obvious.”

Stiles squinted at her shaking his head.

“It’s surrounded by mountain ash, Stiles,” Wyanet said. “As a supernatural entity, I can’t get to it. You however, are one of the few who can. Your kind is practically bound to the stuff.”

“My kind?”

“Yes,” Wyanet said as if he were particularly unintelligent. “Sparks.”

“So if promise to get you this box, you won’t tell John and Dean about me?” Stiles said.

Wyanet nodded regally, or as regally as a woman tied up in a chair could. “On my honor, I shall not breathe a word of your deception to them.”

Stiles worried at his thumbnail considering his options and the sincerity of her word. “I want something else,” he said after a moment. “Something else in addition to your silence.”

The Deer Woman narrowed her eyes. “Do you really think this is the time to be pushing your luck, spark?”

“I guess that depends on how much you want that box,” Stiles said bluntly.

Wyanet scowled, looking away from him in disgust for a long second before sighing. “What do you want?”

Stiles smiled faintly crossing the room to sit in front of her. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the other Deer Women.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever thank you all for reading and for leaving comments! I appreciate greatly each and every one. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter eight finally! Last chapter will be up Tuesday or Wednesday, lovelies.

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

“What makes you think I know anything about the other Deer Women?” Wyanet asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Let’s call it a gut feeling.”

“Well your gut feeling is wrong,” Wyanet said cocking her head to the side and speaking in a tone that reminded Stiles strongly of Lydia when she was deliberately lying to him. “I just got here a few months ago myself. How would I know anything?”

“Ah, because you’re _Taxti Wau_.”

Wyanet shook her head at him. “Your pronunciation is terrible,” she commented disparagingly.

Stiles let out a frustrated growl, grabbing one of the kitchen chairs and dragging it over in front of Wyanet. He spun it around sitting on it backwards so he could rest his forearms on the back of the chair. “Just talk,” he ordered. “Tell me everything.”

Wyanet huffed, hanging her head for a moment then rolled her eyes. “The first thing I remember is the stars,” she said drawing her words out in a wistfully alluring tone. “The moon looked down upon me and I heard the voice of the Great Spirit speaking—”

“Not that much of everything,” Stiles interrupted. “Start with when you found out about the other Deer Women here. And for God’s sake keep it simple or no box for you.”

Wyanet sighed gustily. “Fine,” she said. “Here’s what I know. There are two women. Sisters. Go by Dyani and Kasa. I met them shortly after arriving. They’re…jaded. Do you remember what I told you about Deer Women, Stiles? What we hate?”

“Cheating, promiscuity, greed,” Stiles listed.

“And entitlement,” Wyanet said before letting silence envelope the room.

Stiles sighed running his hands through his hair and letting his shoulders drop wearily. “What happened to them?” he asked.

Wyanet told the story gently, words spoken soft enough to barely be heard over the motel room heater. “There was a party after the town was officially founded. Everyone gathered to celebrate, even some of the men and women from the reservation. That night a group of five men approached Dyani and Kasa while they were dancing. Dyani and Kasa were young and the men were charming.” Wyanet laughed derisively. “So they talked, they danced, and after these men took Dyani and Kasa out into the woods where they raped and killed them.”

Wyanet smiled leaning forward and meeting Stiles eyes. “And no one cared,” she whispered as if she was sharing a dark secret. She laughed again, a short puff of air, and looked away. “No one cared what happened to these poor girls,” she repeated sounding almost heartbroken by that. “So they died out there, alone in the woods. And while she lay there bleeding out into the cold ground with her dead sister by her side, Dyani prayed to the Great Spirit. She prayed for the strength and power to make those men pay for what was done to her and Kasa. And she was answered.”

“So they died?” Stiles said. “And then were brought back to life?”

“A Deer Women is a spirit, Stiles. Corporeal or not we don’t exist on the same plane as you. We are not living and we are not dead. We simply are.”

Stiles furrowed his brows. “But Kasa and Dyani were living once? They had bodies and bones?” Wyanet nodded and Stiles processed the information quickly. If Deer Women by nature were spirits, but Kasa and Dyani were human at one point then it stood to reason that the same connection that existed between traditional spirits and their bones existed between Kasa and Dyani and their bones. “Are their bodies still in the woods?”

“Who knows?” Wyanet said dismissively. “That was over a century ago.”

“Can you try to be a bit more helpful?” Stiles snapped.

“I am being helpful,” she said leaning back in her chair and arching a single eyebrow. “But if you really must know, there’s a clearing in the North woods. It’s always quiet and most animals avoid the area. All except one.”

“Which one?” Stiles asked though he already suspected the answer.

“Do you know what the name Dyani means, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head.

Wyanet smiled faintly, “It means deer.”

* * *

_“Wyanet says there’s a clearing in the woods north of town. Uh, she says it’s about a two miles in due northeast from Ridge road off the bridge. It’s apparently quite open and avoided by wildlife. If the bones are anywhere they’re there.”_

“And you really think burning the bones will get rid of the Deer Women?” Dean asked looking to Dad and shrugging a little. Dad furrowed his brows a bit before returning to checking the shotguns.

_“Positive,”_ Stiles answered speaking quickly, almost too fast for Dean to keep up with. _“Well, like sixty-eight percent positive. It makes sense. Wyanet can’t be killed because she’s a spirit; that’s why in some lore Deer Woman can’t be killed, because they’re spirits and there’s no bones to burn. But these Deer Women, Dyani and Kasa, they were living and human at one point. So it stands to reason that in some sense they’re more vengeful spirit than Deer Women. I mean, yes, they’re Deer Women but that’s more the form of their incarnation rather than what they actually are. Like a Woman in White. Still a vengeful spirit but operates under a different set of rules. However, burning the bones is a universal method for solving this sort of thing.”_

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Dean conceded glancing once more at Dad. He dropped the phone a bit, Stiles still rambling in his ear, to relay the pertinent information Stiles had told him to Dad.

“Tell him to stay at the motel with the Deer Woman. You and I will check out this clearing,” Dad ordered shutting the trunk with a solid thud and moving to the front of the Impala. Dean nodded curtly folding himself into the passenger seat and waiting for Stiles to take a breath to interrupt him.

“Dad and I will check out the clearing,” Dean said. “You just stay where you are with Wyanet.”

Dean could practically hear Stiles rolling his eyes. _“What the hell else am I going to do?”_ he said a bit petulantly.

“Listen for once?” Dean replied rhetorically. “Just stay out of trouble. I’ll call you after we’re done.” He hung up before Stiles even really got started on his response. Dad raised an eyebrow slightly. “What?” Dean asked.

“He seems to have grown on you,” Dad commented.

Dean frowned slipping his phone back into his pocket. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You just didn’t seem too happy to have him around before,” Dad said making the turn on to the main street through Sperry. “Now it kind of seems like you want to keep him.”

Dean shrugged, watching the buildings flash by as Dad sped through town. “He’s been helpful,” he hedged.

“He doesn’t listen. He puts himself and you at risk,” Dad said flicking on his turn signal before making a quick left just in front of a slow red Subaru.

Dean nodded, furrowing his brows a little in confusion. It almost sounded like Dad was asking for his opinion, and Dad didn’t generally ask his opinion on matters. “He’s not that bad. He was doing okay up until this hunt.”

 “Okay doesn’t cut it, Dean. And I’m not sure I’d call those other hunts okay examples of him listening when being told to do something. He acts like he’s listening, but he’s not. He listens when my orders and his own ideas happen to be going in the same direction and he disobeys without qualm when they don’t,” Dad said gruffly making a hard right and speeding up as they exited town.

To be honest Dean wasn’t sure what to make of how Stiles had been acting lately. Ever since they’d left the last hunt in Tennessee Stiles had seemed high-strung and had gone from reservedly helpful to impulsively making bad decisions. Sure he’d toed the line on the earlier hunts, but he’d never blatantly disobeyed. Willfully misinterpreted, yes. Deliberately ignored, no. Dean wasn’t sure how much had to with the ADHD Stiles had mentioned to him earlier and how much had to do with them closing in on Sioux Falls and Dad’s admittedly obvious favoring towards the option of leaving Stiles behind, but he was sure the combination of everything had more to do with Stiles playing jump rope with the line on this hunt rather than the fact that Stiles wanted to disobey Dad to piss the old man off.

“Stiles isn’t like me, Dad. And he’s not Sam. You can’t expect him to ask how high when you say jump after three weeks. That sort of trust takes time,” Dean said, muttered really, turning to stare out the window rather than face Dad when he reacted to that statement.

“I can and I will,” Dad said with a finality that indicated this would be the end of the conversation whether Dean had more to contribute or not. “If he wants to stay with us then he can listen. That was part of the deal.”

Dean nodded, letting silence envelope the car for the next few minutes as Dad made a left onto Ridge road and pulled off before the bridge. The sun was just starting to dip down behind the trees casting the area in twilight shadows as Dad handed Dean a sawed off from the trunk and a duffle with the salt, lighter fluid, and matches. As an afterthought Dad pulled out one of the shovels and handed that over as well. Dean rolled his eyes at the thought of digging aimlessly for bones they weren’t even sure existed but shouldered it all the same and fell into step behind Dad as they headed into the woods.

They headed northeast from the bridge, faint and hazy rays of sun filtering down through some of the branches and casting sharp shadows through the trunks. They were almost a mile in when Dean caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He stopped quickly turning to try and locate the motion again. Dad halted ahead of him, raising his gun and casting a questioning glance at Dean.

“Don’t think we’re alone, Dad,” he said, lowering his gun once it was clear whatever was tailing them was content to just tail at the moment.

“Did you see it?” Dad asked.

Dean shook his head. “No. But if Stiles is right then they might be here because we’re getting close to the clearing.”

Dad nodded beginning to move forward once more. “Keep a sharp eye out.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said scanning the area more carefully as he followed after Dad. They walked for several minutes more before Dean caught another blur of movement on their left. Dad saw it too if his subtle shift in that direction was anything to go by; he stepped up their pace after that moving quicker through the trees. If Dean doubted at all that they were headed in the right direction, the presence of both Deer Women confirmed they were indeed headed towards something of interest.

By the time Dean caught sight of an open clearing up ahead, the Deer Women were flitting through the trees almost soundlessly in an ever-shrinking circuit around him and Dad.

“Remember,” Dad said lowly, dropping back to speak to Dean, “Avoid eye contact and do not let them close enough to touch you. I’ll run interference, you get to that clearing and see if you can find any bones.”

Dean nodded continuing on to the clearing while Dad moved around it. The clearing was wide about twenty or so feet across and filled with gently swaying grass. Aside from the soft whisper and movement of the grass, the clearing was eerily silent and still. Off center a ragged tree stump jutted up out of the tall grass. Dried grass was tangled amongst it’s base, wrapped around so tightly it almost looked to be strangling the pale wood.

Dean scanned the area quickly before deciding the stump was as good as place to start as any. Plus, the tree reminded him strongly of a headstone in a graveyard. He dumped the duffle he was carrying at the base of the stump setting his sawed off on top of it. While keeping one eye on the clearing around him he dug the spade into the soft dirt and began scraping dirt off. He worked in a steady circle around the stump never going deeper than a foot. From what Stiles had described the women hadn’t been buried by their killers, so it stood to reason they’d be in a shallow grave filled in by time.

Halfway around his circuit his shovel finally hit something other than dirt and rock. Dean scraped more of the dirt away crouching to yank at some of the thicker clumps of grass with his hands. “Yahtzee,” he said brushing dirt away from a ribcage. He dug out around the bones working up to the shoulders and finally around the skull. He’d uncovered almost the entire skeleton of the first woman when the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he spun around just in time to duck away from the Deer Woman swinging angrily at him.

Dean flung himself around the stump reaching for his shotgun and twisting to his feet as he faced her again. The Deer Woman smacked the gun to the side just as he squeezed the trigger making his shot go wide and knocking the sawed off from his hand and into the grass. She slammed her hand into his chest and Dean fell back and to his knees dragging in a harsh breath as his lungs seized from the hit.

He pulled his bowie knife from it’s sheath readying himself to launch back at the Deer Woman slowly advancing on him when a red blur rushed into the clearing and slammed into the Deer Woman from behind.

* * *

_“Dad and I will check out the clearing,”_ Dean said.  _“You just stay where you are with Wyanet.”_

Stiles rolled his eyes. “What the hell else am I going to do?” he said bitterly.

_“Listen for once?”_ Dean replied. _“Just stay out of trouble. I’ll call you after we’re done.”_

Stiles sighed as the call ended, Dean having hung up on him before he could adequately respond to once again being regulated to the motel room. Wyanet was watching him and raised a single eyebrow when Stiles looked at her. He sighed again then snatched a pair of scissors off the table and walking behind Wyanet to cut through her bindings. Maybe letting the Deer Woman go when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on her in the motel wasn’t the smartest idea, but his ideas were rarely what other people would call products of intelligence anyway.

“Don’t run off on me,” Stiles said. “If you run off I’m not getting your box.”

“You keep adding things to the list and maybe I’ll tell the hunters just out spite,” Wyanet hissed baring her teeth in something that approximated a feral grin.

“Then you definitely won’t get your box,” Stiles said unconcernedly gathering the few things he wanted to take with him. Wyanet followed him from the motel sighing a little exasperatedly.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Stiles glanced at her then around the parking lot at his options. “To the woods obviously.”

“And how do we suppose we get there? I for one am not running six miles, and I’m relatively sure teleportation is not in either of our repertoires,” Wyanet said.

Stiles scrunched his nose at her. “Of course not. We’re taking a car,” he said striding confidently towards a small black Honda near the edge of the parking lot. He pulled in a deep breath before trying the handle. The door opened easily and his hit the unlock button for Wyanet as he slid into the seat. She got in with a sigh, gathering her skirts before pulling her door shut and staring at him.

Stiles pulled his own door shut then placed his hands on the steering wheel. He closed his eyes trying to settle his thoughts and emotions before pushing belief into the car to start.

“What are you doing?”

“Starting the car. Shut up,” Stiles snapped. He took another deep breath and tried again. He’d never tried to start something as complex as a car. He’d managed a few small things—a fan, a radio, and on one memorable occasion a microwave—with Sinéad before leaving Boston but never an automobile.

“Whatever you’re trying to do it doesn’t seem be working,” Wyanet observed.

Stiles scowled but ignored her focusing on the car. It was easier when he knew exactly how something was supposed to work and knew all the details to envision working. A vehicle was more complex and he’d be the first to admit he didn’t really know how the hell the thing actually functioned, but it wasn’t impossible. General belief worked just as well sometimes though it often took more effort. He exhaled slowly, clearing his mind before pushing more energy into the car and willing it to start.

It took more energy than he expected, but the car purred alive under his hands and Wyanet actually looked a little surprised. Stiles didn’t spare it much thought putting the car in gear and pulling out of the lot and heading towards the north end of town. Wyanet was silent, simply watching out the window as Stiles sped through town eventually winding his way out Ridge road and pulling off behind the Impala parked on the side of the road before the bridge.

He put the car in park and shoved the door open scanning the area for any signs of the Winchesters. The Impala was empty as was the road around them and the tree line. Evidently the hunters had already headed in for the clearing. Stiles checked the laces on his shoes to make sure they were still tied and headed off the road towards the woods. After a moment he registered the lack of footsteps behind him.

“Aren’t you coming?” Stiles asked turning around and realizing Wyanet hadn’t followed him from the car and was still sitting in the passenger seat with the window down.

She looked almost surprised. “Oh no,” she laughed shaking her head and resting her elbow on the door. “I'm not coming with you to fight with two Deer Women.”

Stiles gaped. “What? Why not?”

“It’s a bit of a conflict of interest, isn’t it?” Wyanet said. “I’m a Deer Woman. They’re Deer Women. It’s probably best if I stay here.”

“But what if something happens to me?” Stiles asked. “Who will get your goddamn box?”

Wyanet rolled her eyes dismissively. “Stiles, please. You went up against me and survived. I’m sure you can handle them.” She cocked her head to the side seeming to listen intently; Stiles jumped as several successive gunshots echoed through the night air. “And you better hurry from the sounds of it.”

Stiles hit the car door, frustrated, then pushed off darting into the trees. He really, really hated cardio. Though he figured that running towards something to potentially save lives was better than running for his own. The trees whipped by him in blurs of muted color and he continued to follow the sporadic sounds of gunfire. He tripped twice, catching himself just short of kissing dirt both times, before he reached the clearing Wyanet had spoken about. He couldn't see John, guessed the older hunter was the source of intermittent gunfire to his right, but Dean was in the clearing.

As Stiles watched, one Deer Woman batted the shotgun from Dean’s hand and hit the hunter hard in the chest, knocking him back a few steps and down to his knees. Stiles leapt into action, darting into the clearing and launching himself at the Deer Woman before she could hit Dean again.

The Deer Woman stumbled as Stiles crashed into her immediately latching one arm around her neck and plastering a hand over her eyes. It was a bit ridiculous, him clinging to her like some sort of parasitic spider monkey, but it worked and that was all that mattered.

Dean gaped at him, shouting his name in a way that clearly indicated there would probably be hell to pay later. The Deer Woman slammed his back into a tree hard, knocking the wind out of him enough so that his grip loosened and she could shake free. She spun around to snarl at him before darting off in amongst the trees seemingly melting from sight once she left the clearing.

“Stiles, what the hell are you doing here?” Dean demanded.

Stiles stumbled to his feet sparing Dean a quick glance before trying to locate the Deer Woman. “You get the bones. I’ll keep her busy,” he said running from the clearing before Dean could protest.

Dean kept yelling after him, shouting his name at various levels of indignation, but he ignored the hunter’s calls slipping in-between the trees and scanning the area for any signs of the Deer Woman. His heart was pumping hard, blood singing in his veins, spark aching for release. There was a flash of movement to his right, and Stiles was giving chase without a second thought keeping his bearings with the clearing to his right as he and the Deer Woman circled it.

The Deer Woman suddenly vanished and Stiles slid to a stop, breathing hard as he turned slowly. He located her again, several yards behind him having evidently backtracked hoping to slip into the clearing unnoticed behind him. He leapt over a fallen tree, rushing to intercept her before she made it back to Dean. He looped around in front of her, directly cutting off her path and once again making a mental note to purchase a bat. She snarled at him, evidently content to just run him over, not once trying to correct her path to go around him. Stiles slammed his palm into her chest, pushing out a surge of power that knocked her back several feet in a flurry of hair and skirt.

He panted feeling the tingle of residual power down his arm and into his fingertips. The Deer Woman pushed herself up tossing her hair from her face and glaring at him. Stiles watched her rise fluidly to her feet eyeing him more seriously now that he’d shown himself to be something of a threat. She regarded him stoically for a few moments then flung herself forward with a snarl. Stiles jerked to the left, avoiding her first hit easily though her second punch caught a glancing blow to his already sore shoulder. He winced, clumsily blocking the next hit aimed at his face and repeated his earlier move though a little lower this time. He drove his hand into her stomach, knocking her feet out from under her and shoving her to the ground roughly.

Stiles swallowed hard, dancing back few steps to put some room between him and the Deer Woman. The two blows he’d landed on her combined with starting the car earlier had drained a significant portion of his reserves and he could feel the fine tremors starting up that always appeared after he overextended himself.

The Deer Woman rushed at him again apparently not having learned anything from the first two times she’d tried the same thing. Stiles hit her chest again knocking her back once more but the force of it was weaker this time, and she recovered faster sweeping her legs around to knock Stiles’ feet out from under him. He threw his hands out to catch himself, gasping as the impact jarred up his arm and to his shoulder that flared hotly in pain.

She leapt to her feet snarling at Stiles on the ground and lashing out swiftly to kick him, a solid kick landing painfully on his ribs. Stiles coughed and rolled away wondering inanely if he’d have a hoof shaped bruise tomorrow. He clawed his fingers through dirt and leaves as he tried to struggle to his feet. Another kick caught him in the stomach rolling him onto his back and knocking any remaining air from his lungs.

Stiles flung his hand out in her direction focusing on pooling his spark into a physical manifestation and throwing the small ball of light at the Deer Woman’s face. The woods lit up brilliantly around them for a second and the Deer Woman reeled back clutching at her eyes giving Stiles time to climb to his feet.

Once she could see again the Deer Woman rushed forward. This time Stiles sidestepped at the last moment, grabbing her shoulder and using her forward momentum to slam her into the wide trunk of an oak tree.

She was just regaining her senses when Stiles saw a flare of light explode in the clearing. The Deer Woman’s eyes widened in shock as fine lines of light began crawling along her skin like fine spider webs. They started at her heart, stretching out over her chest, neck, face, and down her arms to her hands. She turned her hands over staring at the light leaking through the fine cracks in her skin in something akin to shock and dismay. When she looked back at Stiles he thought she almost looked scared.

Stiles reached out unthinkingly, grabbing her shoulders and squeezing reassuringly. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can rest now.”

“My sister,” the Deer Woman said tearing her gaze from Stiles to peer somewhere behind him.

Stiles nodded and tried to smile comfortingly. “She’s going too. She’ll be there.”

“My sister,” she whispered again.

Then she crumbled beneath Stiles’ hands, falling apart and fading away in a softly brilliant flare of golden light, so Stiles was left holding onto nothing but air.

* * *

Dean watched the bones go up in flame anxiously twisting around to peer into the woods for some sign that it had worked. He’d had to work quickly, and he hoped he’d managed to get all the bones even though they’d been steadily decaying in the dirt for over a hundred years. And if Wyanet was right about animals avoiding the clearing then hopefully that meant no wildlife had ever made off with an arm or a leg.

After he was sure the bones had caught and would keep burning Dean pushed himself to his feet and found his sawed off in amongst the grass. He was just about to head out of the clearing after Stiles when the other boy stumbled back in.

“Oh hey,” Stiles said wincing when he tripped over a fallen branch half hidden by the grass. He flailed his arms for a moment then righted himself and flashed Dean a grin. “Good job, compadre. Nice bone torching.”

“It worked?” Dean checked.

“Well she went poof,” Stiles said throwing his hands out in a poor miming of an explosion. “So I’m assuming yes. John is somewhere over that way.” He waved his hand off to the right and Dean heard the crunching of sticks and leaves underfoot before Dad came into view ducking under a low hanging branch. He saw Stiles and heaved a heavy sigh shaking his head. By all appearances Dad was accepting Stiles being there, but Dean knew that look. That was Dad’s _you’re done_ look. Stiles had just as ruined any chance he’d had of staying.

“You boys okay?” Dad asked gruffly.

“Yeah, Dad. We’re good,” Dean replied glancing at a still panting Stiles for a nod of agreement.

John sighed again, resting his shotgun on his shoulder as he glanced over the burning bones. “You two watch that. I’ll walk round and make sure they’re really gone. Soon as those are done burning, _both_ of you head back to the car and stay there. Understood?”

Dean glanced at Stiles again before nodding. “Yes, sir.” 

John gave Stiles another long look, shaking his head in disappointment before disappearing back into the shadows of the trees. Stiles watched him go with heavy sigh then turned back to Dean who was regarding him with an intense look.

“I can’t believe this turned into a goddamn ghost hunt after all,” Stiles said, leaning back against a tree as he watched the bones burn. He groaned pressing a hand gingerly to his ribs as he laughed breathlessly. Dean ran his eyes over Stiles looking for any serious injuries, but it appeared Stiles had just taken another beating. He seemed steady on his feet and Dean would make sure to look him over back at the motel.

“What is it with you and ghosts?” Dean asked leaning on his shovel and shaking his head.

“They’re kind of boring,” Stiles said.

Dean shook his head blinking like he couldn’t believe what Stiles’ had said. “Did you just call vengeful spirits boring?”

Stiles pursed his lips conceding to the point but shrugged anyway. He winced as he moved his shoulder and Dean figured his shoulder was probably still pretty sore. “Maybe the word I’m looking for is predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean repeated moving to gather up the bag with the salt and lighter fluid. “I don’t think spirits are all that predictable, man. I mean they’re all different.”

“Sure,” Stiles agreed pushing off the tree to help him. “But it’s always the same basics. Bad spirit. Research. Interview. Find body. Dig body up. Burn bones. Repeat. It’s like with any perpetrator. There’s always a basic pattern that they follow so it’s kind of easy to profile them. They’re predictable.”

“Perpetrator? Profile?” Dean laughed. The way Stiles talked sometimes made him seem like a fledgling cop or something.

Stiles shook his head, rolling his eyes hard. “Shut up. It’s true and you know it.” 

Dean let it go taking the can of lighter fluid Stile handed him and coming to stand next to the younger man while they watched the bones burn. When the last of the bones crumbled and the flame died out, Dean and Stiles pushed the dirt back over them. Dean thought he heard Stiles mumbling something that sounded like some sort of prayer, but it was short enough that when he looked at Stiles inquiringly he acted like he’d said nothing at all and Dean wasn’t sure enough to question it.

It wasn’t until they were trekking back through the woods to the car that Dean thought to ask, “Hey, so how’d you get here so fast anyway? It’s like six miles from the motel.”

Stiles huffed out an embarrassed laugh and scratched uncomfortably at the back of his head. “Uh, I sort of stole a car I guess.”

Dean threw his head back laughing and clapped Stiles on the shoulder. “For some reason I’m not at all surprised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> My tumblr can be found [here](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been three weeks and John still isn’t keen on keeping Stiles around. They’re in Oklahoma, only two states from South Dakota, and Stiles is starting to worry John really will leave him behind in Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the last chapter!

**Doe a Deer a Female Deer**

“Stiles,” John said softly to catch the boy’s attention as he emerged from the bathroom. Stiles looked up from his computer where he’d been since John had gone to sleep last night after finally returning from burning the Deer Women’s bones and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Can I talk to you outside?” John asked. Dean was still dozing on the second bed, but John figured Stiles would appreciate some privacy.

“Uh, sure,” Stiles said closing his laptop and setting it aside. He followed John from the room, snagging his red hoodie from the chair and pulling it on as he stepped outside. John pulled the door shut behind him moving a few paces away before turning to face Stiles. He cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together in the chill morning air before deciding that getting straight to the point was probably best for all involved.

“I want to know how you knew Wyanet wasn’t killing people,” John said without preamble and watching Stiles reaction intently. He’d determined last night after sending Wyanet on her way with a warning that Stiles’ insistence upon her innocence in the killings here went beyond simple, amateur faith to something more ominous. Stiles said little about anything important but the unwavering certainty he gave John sometimes about the damnedest things—things he shouldn’t be so certain about—raised a lot of questions

Stiles frowned looking mildly puzzled. “I already told you.”

“No,” John corrected. “You told us you thought she was reacting to you and Dean questioning her and that there were other Deer Women. But you said from the start that Wyanet wasn’t who we were looking for, that she wasn’t evil. So I ask you again, how did you know?”

Stiles blinked, pulling his hands from his pockets gesturing harshly. “Old Samuel said she wasn’t—”

“You told Old Samuel the same thing you told me. That she wasn’t evil. How did you know?”

Stiles swallowed heavily then sighed shoving his hands back in his pockets, shoulders dropping. “I had a hunch, okay?”

“A hunch,” John repeated.

“Yes. A hunch. A gut feeling. Intuition,” Stiles said.

“Psychic?” John asked since the boy seemed set on not treading anywhere near the subject. It was the only possibility that fit with the information John had a hand, and would explain quite a bit about Stiles’ peculiarities. Stiles blinked looking incredibly surprised by the suggestion.

“Ah, no,” he said finally. “No. Not, not psychic. Definitely not.”

John nodded slowly, weighing the validity of Stiles’ statement. It seemed overly defensive. “I know a few psychics, Stiles,” he admitted. “If you’re worried about how Dean and I will react—”

“You really think I might be psychic?” Stiles asked speaking over John, and he sounded a bit uncertain about the idea. Hesitant like he was afraid of the possibility.

“Maybe,” John said. “Have you ever considered the idea?”

“Not really,” Stiles said. “I just…I’ve always had a good intuition. Good instincts.”

Great instincts actually, John thought, almost preternatural instincts. “I know a good psychic in Kansas,” John said. Missouri would be good for the boy, especially if he was psychic as John suspected. Not to mention, Stiles wouldn’t be able to lie to Missouri or withhold information like he did with John and Dean. Missouri would see through any façade he tried to put up. “We could swing by before heading to Sioux Falls, see what she thinks.”

“No!” Stiles protested. He seemed to realize right away he’d spoken to quickly and vehemently. It was just another mark against him and whatever he was hiding if he didn’t want to see a psychic that badly especially since he’d done nothing but try to extend the time before they made it to South Dakota up to this point. “Ah. I mean. That’s not…necessary. I’m fine just letting things alone. The way they are. Right now.”

“Are you sure? She could give you some answers,” John said, going for subtle rather than blunt. Forcing Stiles into it would solve nothing.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I really don’t want someone poking around in my head, John.”

“Why not?” John asked crossing his arms.

Stiles narrowed his eyes taking a small step away. “I like my privacy. I like being the only one in my head. I like—”

“Keeping secrets?” John finished.

Stiles eyes flashed angrily and he took another full step back. “I’m not keeping secrets.”

“Well that was a blatant lie,” John said. He really couldn’t fathom Stiles’ reluctance to share anything, especially given the kid’s burning desire to stay with him and Dean. Stiles didn’t seem to understand that John needed to be able to trust him, implicitly and unwaveringly, in order for him to stay. And that trust couldn’t be built on lies, half-truths, and cryptic statements.

“John,” Stiles started before stopping like he wasn’t sure what to say. “I don’t…I’m not lying to you to hurt you or Dean. I’m not even really lying to you.”

“Not really lying is lying, Stiles,” John said bluntly. “How do you expect me to trust you enough to hunt with us if you can’t even tell me one honest thing about yourself?”

“I told you I need your help.”

“That’s about all you’ve told me. And I can’t trust you until you give me more,” said John. He let that sink in a moment before saying, “As it stands, you’re remaining in Sioux Falls.”

Stiles looked crushed for a second, a wide range of emotions flitting across his face before settling on anger. John nodded and stepped around the boy to move toward the car, conversation finished as far as he was concerned. Dean would be awake within the hour and the sooner they ate breakfast the sooner they could be on the road to South Dakota.

“I saved your son’s life,” Stiles called after him. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

John sighed, leaning his arm across the top of the Impala’s door to look back at the young man staring at him furiously. “Dean’s not a bargaining chip, Stiles. You’ve convinced him. You haven’t convinced me.”

* * *

Stiles bit his lip ducking back around the corner of the building and clutching at the bag slung over his shoulders as yet another car rolled past kicking up a trail of dust that shimmered in the early morning sun in its wake. Getting caught stealing what would no doubt be considered priceless artifacts from a Native American reservation was the last thing he wanted added to his already extensive enough criminal record. And saying the Deer Woman asked for them back would most definitely not be considered a good enough reason to steal from tribal elders.

He’d scouted the area last night, slipping out in the early hours when it was still dark and most sane people, including John and Dean though their sanity was debatable, were actually asleep in their beds. It hadn’t been difficult to locate the box in question, a steady thrum of power charging the air like a honing beacon to his spark even from behind wood walls.

After John had left him in the parking lot Stiles figured there wasn’t much left for him to lose by disappearing for a couple of hours before they left town without telling Dean or John where he’d gone. He’d returned to the reservation and the small building he’d determined held the box. Other than mountain ash the building hadn’t been well defended or heavily secured. A few people avoided and redirected, a few locks picked, a mountain ash barrier crossed, and Stiles had the box in his hands.

The box itself hadn’t been locked, only carved out of rowan wood. Stiles suspected any supernatural creature wouldn’t even be able to touch it. It was long but thin and flat, and it was fairly heavy when he lifted it carefully. When he opened it he found it full of actual mountain ash, whatever was inside buried in the supernatural repellant. He wished he was surprised by what lay under all the ash, but the truth of the matter was he should have expected it.

Stiles picked his way around several more buildings, easily avoiding the few people out and about this time of day before not so inconspicuously leaving the cover of the buildings at the edge of the small town and jogging down the road. A mile and ten minutes later, he breathed a slight sigh of relief as he crossed back into Sperry and immediately headed for the woods he’d found Dean and Wyanet in not two days prior. The woods were far less difficult to navigate in morning, and Stiles weaved in among the trees at a brisk pace easily retracing his path from before to the bubbling creek. His phone buzzed in his pocket and Stiles pulled it out grimacing at yet another text from Dean. Apparently he was missing breakfast.

Stiles hiked the bag higher on his shoulder as he ducked under a low hanging branch, trailing along the creek a few more minutes before spotting the large rock Wyanet had told him marked the creek crossing. Sure enough there was a large tree a few feet beyond the rock. Stiles leapt up on the fallen tree with ease born of being in tune with the world around him, and crossed quickly jumping down to the soft earth on the other side. Five more minutes upstream from the fallen tree he followed the half-hidden deer path to the same clearing he’d found Wyanet in a few days ago.

Wyanet smiled at him, rising from where she had been seated on the ground tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and brushing dirt from her skirts. “Did you get it?” she asked eagerly.

Stiles shrugged the bag off, tugging the straps open and reaching inside. Wyanet narrowed her eyes as Stiles slowly drew the antlers out. He could feel the steady thrum of energy beneath his fingers, almost in sync with his own spark.

“You opened the box,” Wyanet said phrasing it much more like a statement than a question though the answer was obvious.

Stiles dropped the bag off to the side, transferring the one antler to his other hand and running his fingers along the smooth points. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d actually hand you a box with an unknown object in it, did you? I’m not stupid.”

Wyanet snarled, features twisting into something inhuman, and darted forward as if to wrench the antlers from him. Stiles stepped back quickly, holding both antlers in one hand again as his other delved into his pocket for his mountain ash. He held the mountain ash out to the side not throwing it yet but prepared, while he pointed the antlers at Wyanet. “Ah, ah, ah. No need to get feisty, all right? I didn’t say I wouldn’t give them to you. I just want some answers first.”

“Fine,” she spat. “Ask your questions.”

“What are these?” Stiles said.

Wyanet laughed, loud and shrill, as she began to circle him. “I thought you said you weren’t stupid. They’re antlers, Stiles.”

“This will go a lot faster if you’re honest,” Stiles said turning slowly to keep her in his line of sight. “I can tell they’re powerful. I just want to know what they are.”

“They’re just antlers, Stiles. My antlers,” said Wyanet. Her tone was wistful, almost longingly. “I’m a Deer Woman, and what’s a deer without her antlers?”

Stiles frowned. “Female deer don’t have antlers,” he said.

Wyanet smiled at him, tilting her head to the side. “I do,” she said. “Or rather I did. Until they were stolen from me.”

“So these are why you’re in Sperry?” Stiles said several pieces of the puzzle slotting together. “These are why you’ve spent the last few years at the university combing through anything and everything related to Deer Women. You were looking for these?”

“You really are smart, aren’t you?” Wyanet chuckled lightly shaking her head. “You’re right. I was looking for them. They were stolen from me centuries ago, passed down through families and transferred between tribes as gifts and trophies. It’s despicable, the way they were treated. I spent decades looking for them and somehow they ended up here,” she said spreading her arms out to encompass the woods around them and town beyond as she stepped closer. “In some middle of nowhere town called Sperry of all places. And, you know, even after I located them I still couldn't get them back. It’s so embedded in tradition and these people are so strict that they were _never_ out of that goddamn room. Never free from the mountain ash and not once in almost ten years have I been able to convince someone who could get them to actually get them for me and have them succeed. And then you come along, stumbling out of nowhere with hunters of all things. I really do have to thank you, Stiles.”

She reached out, closing her hand around the antlers. Stiles tugged them back, ignoring the flash of anger through her eyes. “Why didn’t you ask another druid for help?” he said. “Surely in ten years you could have found one druid.”

Wyanet rolled her eyes. “Druids,” she said, spitting the word out like it personally offended her to say it. “They’re arrogant. Haughty to the point of fault. Concerned more with maintaining the balance than helping those around them. How could I, a divine spirit, beg such creatures for help? Lower myself to a level of such wretchedness as to seek out a druid to aid me.”

Stiles swallowed, releasing the antlers to Wyanet and stepping away as she immediately ran her fingers over them, almost purring in satisfaction. “You asked me,” he said.

Wyanet glanced at him. “You and I are on even ground. I had something you wanted, and there is no debt between us for your deed. And besides, you are no druid. When was the last time you concerned yourself with the balance? When was the last time you concerned yourself with anyone beyond your precious pack? You’re a spark, Little Red, and a selfish one at that. You do not seek to maintain the world, but to use it.”

“What are you going to do now? That you have the antlers back?” Stiles asked warily.

Wyanet tilted her head at him. “Relax, Stiles, you didn’t deliver me back a weapon of ultimate destruction,” she said dryly. “These antlers are precious to me in a way you wouldn’t understand, but they ultimately play a miniscule part in my existence. I’ll continue doing what I was doing. I’ll get my degree here and I’ll move on to a town that’s not so pathetically small and bigoted. Maybe New York. Maybe Chicago. Maybe Boston.”

“You like cities?”

“Maybe I want a change of scenery,” Wyanet said. 

Stiles nodded. “Maybe avoid Boston,” he advised.

Wyanet smiled and for once it looked completely genuine. “Maybe I will,” she said. “Thank you, Stiles, for retrieving my antlers.”

“Well, thanks for not ratting me out to Dean and John.”

“Of course. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that,” Wyanet said.

Stiles shifted, rubbing at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “They’re not my enemies,” he said. “They’re…they just wouldn’t understand. It’s best if they don’t know.”

Wyanet regarded him critically a moment then sighed. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice, Little Red, and hope you are wise enough to heed it. They’re hunters and you are a spark. Get away from them before they find out.”

* * *

“Where the fuck have you been?” Dean called resolutely ignoring the relief that flooded through him when he saw Stiles heading towards the motel room. “Much longer and I think Dad was just gonna leave your ass.

“Went for a run,” Stiles said. “Needed to clear my head.”

Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow running his gaze obviously over Stiles hoodie, jeans, loosely tied tennis shoes, and random bag he was holding in his hand. “A run?”

Stiles grimaced avoiding Dean’s gaze as he ducked into the room. “Okay, you got me. Went for a walk because when I run I always end up puking and I thought I’d skip that today,” he said pulling his duffle from the ground and beginning to pack his meager belongings. Stiles never unpacked much. Usually just his computer and pillow remained out of his bag for the duration of their stay; everything else was religiously returned directly after use.  

“Are you okay?” Dean asked retrieving his own already packed duffle from his bed.

Stiles glanced at him looking a little puzzled as he zipped his bag shut. “Yeah,” he said pursing his lips and shrugging indifferently, “I’m fine.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, his left instead of his right like usual, and snagged a half empty bottle of water off the table as he passed by twisting off the cap and taking a big gulp before walking right past Dean.

“Hey,” Dean said, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder before he could slip out the door. “Uh, whatever happens when we make it to Bobby’s, just so you know, I don’t mind having you around. If it was up to me, you’d be staying.”

Stiles sighed nudging Dean on the shoulder and stepping out of the room to look out over the parking lot. “Well, thanks, dude. But I think it’s like you said earlier, which is it’s entirely up to your dad. And I’m not sure I made him all that happy on this hunt,” he said frowning as he watched John load up the Impala. “Think I kind of drove him a bit nuts actually.”

Dean chuckled then shrugged. “Well, I can’t argue there. I think you’ve been driving everyone nuts for the past week and a half. Which reminds me,” he said hefting his duffle higher on his shoulder and digging into his pocket to fish out a small pill bottle he’d gotten earlier that morning. He tossed it at Stiles who fumbled to catch it eventually managing to trap it between his arm and stomach, the pills rattling around inside. Stiles squinted questionably at Dean who just smirked and pointed at the bottle. “You’re welcome.”

Stiles dropped his gaze to the bottle, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he read the label. He looked back up at Dean with wide eyes. “How did you—”

“It’s not the first time I’ve forged a prescription,” Dean said pulling the motel door shut behind him and thinking back to the many, many times he’d done the same for Sam or Dad as they crossed the lot to the car. Although, admittedly, he’d never forged one for Adderall before. “I wasn’t sure about your dose so…” he continued trailing off as Stiles pulled the bottle up again.

Stiles quickly looked over the instructions and dosage. He mouthed along as he read then looked up at the sky as if he was calculating something. “I can work with it,” he said finally offering Dean a grateful smile. Dean nodded, mentally congratulating himself on a job well done, as he passed Stiles on his way to drop his duffle in the trunk.

“Uh, I do have a question for you,” Dean said.

Stiles dumped his bag next to Dean’s still considering the Adderall for a moment before tucking the bottle away in a side pocket of his duffle. “Ask and ye shall receive an answer,” he said then tacked on, “Probably.”

“How’d you know it would work?” Dean asked.

“Know what would work? Burning their bones?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “No. Uh. Kissing me,” he said. “How’d you know it would break Wyanet’s hold?”

Stiles blew out a short breath. “Uh, I didn’t. Not really. Just thought that if you were under her song and consumed by lust and greed and envy, then maybe kissing you would snap you out of it.”

Dean frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“So what? I had a hunch and it worked,” Stiles said. “Stop complaining about me saving your life.”

“You kissed me on a hunch?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Don’t act like it’s such a big deal,” Stiles said. “I’ve kissed, like, ninety percent of people I know including my best friend on one memorable occasion. You’re not special.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, you’re not special,” Stiles said smirking before rounding the car to get in the back seat.

Dean scowled at his back slamming the trunk shut with an eloquent, “Well, yeah, you’re not...special.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end, folks. Keep an eye out for part four (Respite) to come within the next two weeks. 
> 
> As always thanks for reading! 
> 
> And feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


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